LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA    CRUZ 


SANTA     CRUZ 


Edwin  S.  Pillsbury    • 

t 


it 

SANTA     CRUZ 

THE   GRITO 

OR 

FROM  THE  ALAMO  TO  SAN  JACINTO 


FRONTISPIECE 

"There  was  something  possessive  in  his  clasp." 


FROM  THE  ALAMO 
TO  SAN  JACINTO 

Or,   THE    GRIT  O 


A     NOVEL    BY 

MONCURE  LYNE 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

1 8   EAST    SEVENTEENTH  STREET     NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1904 
BY    MONCURE    LYNE 
(ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED) 


PS 

35.2.5 

yy-s 


DEDICATED 

TO 

MT  MOTHER 


TO  THE  READER 


As  a  child  I  used  to  enjoy  listening  to  the  tales  of 
an  old  ranchman  who  had  fought  in  the  wars  against 
Santa  Anna  and  drawn  a  white  bean  at  Salado. 

His  reminiscences  included  also  tales  of  Davy 
Crockett  and  other  heroes  of  the  Alamo.  He  had 
known  personally  Deaf  Smith  and  scores  of  Indian 
hunters  and  sat  along  with  Bigfoot  Wallace  by  the 
camp-fires  of  the  Rangers.  Like  a  spiritualist  at 
his  bidding,  these  pioneers'  souls  would  come  forth, 
divested  of  the  graveclothes  in  which  historians  have 
shrouded  and  laid  them  away  in  the  dust  of  the 
archives.  Brave,  stalwart  men  of  flesh  and  blood 
were  they,  those  early  Texans,  under  whose  buckskin 
shirts  throbbed  hearts  as  daring  as  any  that  ever 
beat  neath  the  armor  of  crusader. 

The  strange  dominion  they  inhabited  is  now  the 
land  of  the  past.  The  period  of  their  existence  was 
those  epic  days  when  reality  made  romance,  and  the 
partnership  of  man  with  nature  had  not  been  dis- 
solved. Such,  however,  was  the  vital  strength  of 
their  patriotism  that  they  not  only  outlived  oppres- 
sion but  will  live  always  in  the  chronicles  of  the 
country  and  the  hearts  of  the  people. 

That  more  broadcast  may  be  scattered  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  fiery  trials  through  which  these  martyrs 


passed  in  establishing  liberty,  has  prompted  my  col- 
lecting these  reminiscences  under  the  title  of 

"THE  GRITO." 

In  weaving  this  work  the  woof — the  historical 
facts — comes  from  the  shuttle  of  truth ;  but  as  color- 
ing is  necessary  to  a  tapestry,  for  warp  I  have  used 
a  little  love-tale,  a  romance  from  the  skein  of  imagi- 
nation. The  only  liberty  taken  as  a  novelist  is  the 
insertion  of  the  somber  shadow  of  the  Mier  episode 
out  of  its  chronological  order,  though  the  incident 
in  detail  is  correct.  My  reason  for  so  doing  was  that 
it  portrayed  Mexican  cruelty  in  sharp  black  lines, 
and  enhances  the  glorious  light  illumining  the  San 
Jacinto  field,  where  independence  was  won. 

If  characters  many  be  introduced,  not  one  of  them 
could  be  omitted,  for  like  the  children  of  Jacob  they 
wrested  the  land  from  the  enemy.  And  so  when 
Texas  portioned  out  her  territory,  names  of  worthy 
sons  such  as  Karnes,  Deaf  Smith,  Jack  and  Cameron 
find  a  place  in  her  geography,  transmitted  there 
from  history.  The  wreath  of  oak  and  palm  leaves 
on  the  seal  of  the  State  might  well  typify  their  valor 
and  victory,  for  entwined  they  complete  the  beauty 
of  The  Lone  Star. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  JoseTa's  Blue  Silk 11 

II  A  Plume  and  Rapier  Exchange  Owners 23 

III  A  Friendship  is  Formed 33 

IV  The  Music  of  Guitar 46 

V  Breakers  Ahead 54 

VI  Settling  a  Score 60 

VII  Her  Confidence 66 

VIII  A  Bit  of  Old  Spain 72 

IX  The  Grito  Begins 85 

X  The  Comanche  Witnesses  a  Scene 96 

XI  The  Wolf  on  the  Fold 104 

XII  The  Spy 122 

XIII  Over  the  Line 135 

XIV  The  Weight  of  a  Feather 158 

XV  Concerning  Daubigney 170 

XVI  Mexican  Veracity 181 

XVII  A  Disappearance 192 

XVIII  In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider 204 

XIX  A  Promise  is  Demanded 219 

XX  A  Heinous  Lottery 232 

XXI  The  Search 248 

XXII  The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer 260 

XXIII  The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh 274 

XXIV  The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams 284 

XXV  The  Mystery  Explained 299 

XXVI  The  Blade  that  Won 307 


THE  GRITO 


CHAPTER  I 
JOS£FA'S  BLUE  SILK 

The  Mexicans  are  a  people  of  proverbs.  Like  sea- 
weed on  the  ocean  of  their  polite  speeches,  whose 
surf  seldom  touches  any  grain  of  sincerity,  float 
numerous  adages,  some  of  which  attract  attention, 
as,  "Those  whom  the  gods  love  they  let  live  in 
Texas;"  and  that  other  maxim  voicing  the  senti- 
ment that,  "  Having  once  tasted  the  waters  of  the 
San  Antonio  River,  one  will  return  to  quaff  more." 

Stale  though  these  axioms  be,  yet  they  hold  car- 
dinal truths  as  time  has  exemplified — for  no  land  in 
the  West  appealed  more  strongly  to  seekers  of 
home  or  fortune  than  the  beauty  of  the  Bexar  coun- 
try of  Texas,  with  its  fine  grazing  pastures  linking 
the  cattle  section  with  the  fertile  fields  to  the  north- 
ward, and  centering  attraction  in  the  quaint  old  town 
of  San  Antonio. 

"San  Tone  de  Bexar,"  as  it  was  frequently  called, 
was  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-five  a 
conglomeration  of  cosmopolitanism,  in  which  the 
Spanish  element  largely  prevailed.  On  the  banks  of 
the  sluggish  blue-green  waters  of  the  San  Antonio 


12  The  Grito 

River,  bordered  by  mesquite  and  pecan,  rose  the 
adobe  of  the  Mexican  and  the  log  cabin  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon,  while  in  the  distance,  like  a  speck  on 
the  horizon,  was  the  wigwam  of  that  race  which 
ever  makes  a  picturesque  setting  for  the  history  of 
our  country.  The  tepee  had  made  room  for  the 
adobe  and  in  turn  the  adobe  was  to  give  place  to  the 
cabin;  for  the  lax  hold  of  Mexico  on  this  land  was 
clay,  while  the  American  was  grasping  for  it  with 
the  strength  of  the  live  oak. 

It  did  not  need  a  prophet  to  discern  the  struggle 
that  must  come  when  the  Anglo-Saxon,  fulfilling 
his  mighty  destiny,  would  seek  to  wrench  this  fair 
country  from  Mexican  bondage;  for  already  this 
new  factor  could  claim  existence  in  the  womb  of  the 
great  Southwest,  and  soon  would  begin  the  travail  of 
liberty — the  birth  of  freedom. 

Seen  through  the  clear,  translucent  atmosphere  of 
a  balmy  clime  neath  a  turquoise  sky,  the  old  Spanish 
settlement,  nestled  in  its  cup-shaped  valley  bordered 
by  the  Guadalupe  foot-hills,  looked  like  a  tawny 
beast  asleep.  The  houses,  mostly  Moorish  in  design, 
were  widely  scattered,  the  two  most  important  build- 
ings being  the  cathedral  of  San  Fernando,  the  belfry 
of  which  served  as  a  watch-tower  to  keep  a  lookout 
for  Indians;  and  the  Alamo,  which  combined  pre- 
sidio with  church,  but  was  now  used  simply  as  a 
fort. 

Below  the  city,  to  the  southward,  were  other  edi- 
fices of  similar  structure,  giving  to  San  Antonio 
the  sobriquet  of  "The  City  of  Missions."  Like 
scattered  beads  from  the  rosary  of  some  dead  monk, 
they  stretched  over  a  radius  of  nine  miles  or  more, 


Josef a's  Blue  Silk  13 

and  were  known  as  the  Missions  of  La  Conception, 
San  Jose,  San  Juan  de  Capistrano  and  San  Francisco 
de  la  Espada ;  but  these,  though  more  stately  in  de- 
sign, were  not  destined  to  the  glory  of  the  Alamo. 
They  simply  marked  the  receding  footprints  of  Old 
Spain. 

Caravans  of  mules,  laden  with  ingots  of  silver 
from  the  region  beyond  the  Rio  Grande,  daily 
stopped  in  San  Antonio  on  their  way  to  the  East; 
while  smugglers  and  peddlers  from  the  Sabine, 
bound  for  the  West,  halted  for  refreshment  in  this 
gay,  gambling  settlement,  where  Mexican  jugglers 
entertained  the  crowds  with  feats  of  dexterity  and 
skill  and  the  fiestas  of  the  Church  attracted  alike 
pagan  and  priest.  The  cachuca  was  nightly  danced 
on  the  plazas  to  the  music  of  castanet  and  guitar, 
so  that  the  little  frontier  city  breathed  a  strange,  wild 
life,  as  is  ever  the  case  when  the  mingling  of  civiliza- 
tion begets  a  new  race.  The  germs  of  this  life  com- 
bined the  grandiloquent,  siesta-loving,  passionate 
romance  with  the  practical,  plain,  blunt,  hardy  ele- 
ment, vitalized  by  pioneer  determination  and  rena- 
scent by  prairie  vigor. 

The  plazas  were  not  defined  by  a  surveyor's  com- 
pass, but  shaped  according  to  the  dictates  of  Nature 
into  spots  of  beauty,  luxuriant  with  vegetation  kissed 
by  a  half-tropic  sun.  One  was  known  as  the  Mili- 
tary Plaza ;  the  other,  the  Plaza  de  las  Islas,  so  called 
for  the  Island  Spaniards,  who  at  the  founding  of 
San  Antonio  had  come  from  the  Canaries  at  the 
king's  command,  so  that  this  new  colony  might  be 
peopled  with  the  best  blood  of  old  Spain. 


14  The  Grito 

The  House  of  the  Priest  on  the  Military  Plaza 
was  a  place  almost  as  well-known  in  the  locale  of 
the  city  as  the  Alamo.  It  was  the  tavern  for  the 
traveler,  the  liberty-hall  for  the  lounger,  and  the 
salon  where  the  Priest  exercised  his  silent  yet  potent 
influence  for  purity  in  that  muddy  stream  called 
Mexican  government;  and  yet  the  Priest,  Father 
Clement,  was  not  a  Spaniard,  but  a  French  Jesuit. 
His  nationality,  however,  mattered  not,  since  above 
all  else  he  was  a  born  diplomat,  ingratiating  himself 
in  the  lives  of  those  about  him,  and  by  the  assurance 
of  his  sympathetic  interest  grappling  to  himself  the 
affection  of  the  community.  Perhaps  the  secret  of 
his  power  lay  in  his  knowledge  not  only  of  human 
nature,  but  the  people  as  individuals.  He  knew 
their  characters  as  well  as  names ;  their  hates  as  well 
as  loves ;  their  joys  as  well  as  sorrows.  He  was  not 
an  ascetic,  but  a  mingler — thus  we  find  him  today 
going  to  the  racing.  The  populace  of  Bexar,  esteem- 
ing good  horsemanship  a  proof  of  respectability, 
were  all  greatly  interested  in  this  event,  and  what- 
ever harmlessly  entertained  them  the  Jesuit  indulged 
and  favored. 

Father  Clement  as  he  hurried  along  was  a  pic- 
turesque figure.  The  hair  on  his  tonsured  head  was 
beginning  to  show  the  touch  of  frost,  yet  it  had 
been  of  a  blackness  that  caused  his  shaven  cheeks 
to  assume  a  bluish  tint.  His  large,  dark  eyes  were 
not  rimmed  with  age,  neither  were  they  softened, 
and  despite  the  flicker  of  pensive  sadness  often  lurk- 
ing in  them,  shone  with  a  piercing  light,  seeming  to 
read  one's  very  soul.  His  mouth  was  wide  and 
strong;  a  slightly  cleft  chin  harmonized  well  with 


Josef a's  Blue  Silk  15 

his  square,  firm  jaw.  A  phrenologist  might  have 
accurately  discerned  his  character  by  his  finely  pro- 
portioned head,  but  even  a  child  with  a  mere  glance 
could  have  told  that  the  Priest  was  a  man  whose  yea 
meant  yea,  and  those  who  knew  him  best  deemed  it 
unwise  to  dispute  his  nay  once  it  was  uttered. 

Leaving  the  old,  narrow  street  that  meandered  like 
a  tangled  thread  through  the  city,  Father  Clement 
emerged  on  the  Plaza  de  las  Islas,  which  he  rapidly 
crossed,  and  entered  a  pretentious  adobe  dwelling 
with  that  familiarity  manifesting  itself  when  one 
is  in  the  habit  of  frequenting  a  home. 

"  Josefa,  Josefa!  "  he  called. 

"  Yes,  Padre,  I  am  coming." 

"  Well,  then,  hurry,  my  little  one,  for  it  is  already 
time  we  were  starting.  Do  not  primp  so,  my  chi- 
quita." 

"Here  I  am  now,"  said  the  girl,  courtesying  low 
as  she  entered  the  room. 

"Vanity  of  vanities!"  exclaimed  the  Priest,  sol- 
emnly shaking  his  head,  though  his  eyes  rested 
admiringly  on  the  vision  before  him.  Josefa  had 
never  looked  lovelier.  Her  big,  black  eyes  were 
bright  with  fun;  like  damask  the  color  glowed  in 
her  cheeks  through  the  soft,  clear,  olive  skin,  while 
her  full  lips,  parting  in  a  smile,  revealed  teeth  regu- 
lar as  a  string  of  pearls — and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing new  in  her  beauty,  puzzling  though  pleasing 
to  the  Priest.  The  girl,  noting  the  scrutiny  of  his 
gaze,  hastened  to  enlighten  him. 

"It  is  my  dress,"  she  said;  "is  it  not  lovely?" 
And  catching  her  skirt  so  as  to  show  its  great  width, 
Josefa,  humming  a  fandango,  began  to  dance,  for 


16  The  Grito 

so  filled  was  she  with  youthful  buoyancy  it  seemed 
impossible  to  keep  still. 

Father  Clement  smiled  indulgently. 

"Thou  wilt  make  me  think  this  is  Paris  instead 
of  San  Antonio  ;  but  women  are  the  same  the  world 
over  when  it  comes  to  frills  and  finery.  One  might 
suppose  that  thou  wert  an  angel  that  had  stolen  a 
piece  of  sky  for  a  robe." 

"  It  did  not  come  out  of  the  sky,  though  it  is  as 
blue  as  the  heavens  ;  but  out  of  an  old  chest,  packed 
away  with  lavender,  and  I  suspect  is  an  heirloom 
from  my  father's  mother." 

"Very  probably  she  brought  it  from  the  Canaries," 
said  the  Priest,  adding,  with  that  love  of  detail  char- 
acteristic of  those  past  middle  life  :  "for  the  Urreas 
were  among  the  wealthiest  of  Island  Spaniards,  and 


"But  you  have  not  seen  my  hat,"  was  the  irrele- 
vant interruption;  and  slipping  out  of  the  room, 
Josefa  soon  returned  wearing  a  sombrero  that  would 
have  suited  the  taste  of  a  ranchero,  save  that  a  long 
white  ostrich  plume  added  graceful  effeminacy. 

The  Priest  thought  to  himself  what  a  picture  she 
would  make  could  some  artist  sketch  her  just  as  she 
stood.  Aloud  he  said  :  "Does  your  Uncle  Ramon 
approve  of  your  costume?" 

Drawing  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth  in  mock 
sobriety,  Josefa  lifted  a  warning  finger,  as  she 
replied  : 

"Padre,  not  a  word  must  you  breathe  about  it,  for 
he  would  fain  have  me  wear  a  mantilla  over  my  head 
and  only  peep  out  at  his  friend  Don  Castrillo,  but 
I  shall  not  so  much  as  even  look  at  him  !" 


Josefa's  Blue  Silk  17 

"I  promise."  And  the  Priest's  voice,  as  if  the 
mention  of  Castrillo  were  distasteful,  held  in  it  a 
note  of  irritation  which  vanished  as  he  continued : 

"If  life  were  a  legend,  with  that  dress  and  hat 
thou  wouldst  surely  meet  the  prince  today." 

"The  prince!  O  Padre!  and  what  would  he  be 
like  ?  Would  he  be  tall  and  fair  and  — " 

"More  likely  he  would  be  dwarfish,  with  a  broken 
back,  and  a  squint  in  his  eye  or  a  wart  on  his  nose." 

Father  Clement  then  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  at  the  disappointment  his  drollery  brought 
to  the  girl's  face. 

"Come,  come,  my  child,  life  is  stranger  than  a 
story.  Cheer  up,  who  knows  but  what  we  may  meet 
him  after  all  ?  Let's  off  to  the  racing." 

"Who  knows?  Quien  sabe?"  repeated  she,  as  a 
deeper  tint  dyed  her  cheeks. 

The  Priest  deemed  it  best  for  them  to  go  afoot, 
for  though  Josefa's  burro  was  gentle,  yet  there 
would  be  many  spirited  mustangs  abroad  that  day, 
and  horses,  like  people,  were  to  be  corrupted  by 
example.  This  preference  for  prudence  carried 
weight  with  the  senorita,  who  always  enjoyed  walk- 
ing in  the  company  of  Father  Clement;  so  leisurely 
they  strolled  along,  as  the  distance  was  not  great. 

Since  the  Priest  first  trudged  this  sun-glistening 
white  path — the  old  San  Antonio  Road,  the  Appian 
Way  of  Texas,  though  scarce  more  than  a  trail — 
eighteen  years  had  passed.  Time,  however,  can  not 
always  be  reckoned  by  calendar,  for  years  are  but 
arbitrary  distinctions  after  all.  Father  Clement  was 
today  a  younger  man  in  feeling  and  hope  than  he 


18  The  Grito 

had  been  when,  disappointed  at  the  destiny  of  Napo- 
leon's dreams,  he  had  sought  the  New  World  as  a 
Champ  d'Asile,  a  place  of  refuge;  but  with  the 
prayer  in  his  heart  to  the  good  God  and  the  Blessed 
Virgin  that  come  what  would  he  might  ever  remain 
a  faithful  Frenchman. 

Voyage  across  the  Atlantic  had  been  given  him 
my  Jean  Lafitte,  who,  albeit  his  ships  menaced  the 
traffic  of  those  times,  yet  the  pirate's  heart  cherished 
a  love  for  Napoleon  amounting  almost  to  idolatry; 
and  this  made  him  quick  to  recognize  with  friend- 
liness all  who  were  French  in  feeling  like  Father 
Clement. 

As  the  Priest  now  walked  by  the  side  of  Josefa 
the  reality  of  the  present  faded  from  view  and  he 
was  living  over  the  evening  when,  footsore  and 
weary,  Don  Alphonso,  Josefa's  father,  a  true  son  of 
the  Church,  bade  him  welcome  with  courtesies  more 
elaborate  than  the  busy  world  has  time  for  today. 

Having  traveled  in  many  lands,  the  Priest  had 
become  a  citizen  of  the  world,  easily  adapting  him- 
self to  circumstances.  With  Don  Alphonso  as  audi- 
ence he  recounted  the  glories  of  the  wars  of  France, 
and  the  Spaniard  listened,  partly  in  wonder  and 
partly  with  that  incredulity  with  which  one  lends 
an  ear  to  a  solidier's  tale.  Their  acquaintance  soon 
ripened  into  a  comradeship  that  was  to  endure,  the 
cord  binding  them  being  congeniality — the  one  was 
an  interesting  talker,  the  other,  that  necessary  ad- 
junct an  attentive  listener.  Entertained  well,  they 
smoked  away  the  hours,  taking  no  note  of  time  until 
the  advent  of  a  babe  began  a  new  epoch  in  the 
Mexican  home. 


Josefa's  Blue  Silk  19 

Don  Alphonso  had  counted  much  on  the  coming 
of  this  little  stranger  who  was  to  inherit  his  fortune 
and  maintain  his  hacienda,  but  great  was  his  dis- 
appointment that  Fate  had  seen  wise  to  send  a 
daughter  when  all  his  hopes  had  centered  upon  a 
son.  This,  though,  was  a  minor  trouble  to  the  real 
sorrow  awaiting  him,  as  the  mother 's  life  was  the 
ransom  the  infant  cost. 

After  the  burial  the  Priest's  presence  proved  a 
great  comfort  to  the  stricken  husband,  who  would 
not  hear  of  his  departure.  So  it  happened  at  the 
baby's  baptism  the  Frenchman  stood  godfather,  be- 
stowing upon  her  the  name  Josephine  in  honor  of 
Napoleon's  empress.  Though  Don  Alphonso 
admired  the  history  of  the  beautiful  Creole,  yet  the 
word  Josephine  seemed  harsh  to  the  music-loving 
ear  of  the  Mexican,  hence  he  changed  it  to  "Josefa," 
by  which  she  became  known  to  those  about  her,  until 
even  Father  Clement  adopted  the  habit  of  calling 
her  by  no  other. 

As  the  child  grew  she  rejuvenated  the  Priest's 
interest  in  the  world,  and  had  she  been  flesh  of  his 
flesh  and  bone  of  his  bone  he  could  hardly  have 
loved  her  more.  All  the  resources  within  his  power 
were  taxed  for  her  amusement  and  instruction;  and 
from  the  full  fount  of  his  learning  the  girl  quaffed 
knowledge  in  pleasant  draughts,  enjoying  the  bene- 
fits of  his  toil  without  realizing  the  drudgery  it  had 
cost.  The  strange  stories  he  told,  gathered  from 
legend  and  experience,  stirred  her  fancy  with  fasci- 
nation; so  though  she  lived  in  an  adobe  of  clay,  all 
her  spare  moments  were  spent  in  dreamland.  None 
of  Father  Clement's  tales  interested  her  as  much  as 


20  The  Grito 

his  account  of  the  girlhood  of  the  Empress  Joseph- 
ine and  none  left  so  great  an  impress.  With  that 
intuition  that  forstalls  the  actual,  that  anticipates 
the  real,  Josefa  early  became  convinced  that  her  own 
future  was  to  be  eventful,  like,  in  a  measure,  the  one 
for  whom  she  was  named.  She  thus  developed  into 
maidenhood  under  conditions  vastly  different  from 

the  atmosphere  of  San  Antonio  de  Bexar. 

****** 

The  Priest  and  his  godchild  nearing  the  riding- 
ground,  stopped  for  a  while  near  the  San  Pedro 
Springs,  choosing  for  their  resting-place  the  shade 
of  one  of  the  large  pecans.  Sitting  there  watching 
the  assembling  crowd,  Josefa  noticed  in  the  distance 
a  moving  object  that  attracted  her  attention.  Closer 
and  closer  it  came  until  the  girl  could  plainly  discern 
it  was  a  horseman,  but  there  was  something  about 
him  that  rendered  his  appearance  different  from 
equestrians  familiar  to  her.  As  he  drew  nearer  she 
noted  that  the  movements  of  his  animal  were  with 
longer  strides  than  those  taken  by  a  Mexican  horse 
and  that  the  trappings  as  well  as  the  dress  of  the 
rider  were  simpler. 

When  plainly  in  view  a  quicker  pulsation  throbbed 
in  the  veins  of  the  senorita,  bringing  a  bright  glow 
to  her  cheeks ;  for  the  stranger  had  halted  his  steed 
and  was  mopping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 
Never  before  had  Josefa  seen  any  one  like  him.  His 
hair  was  thick  and  curly,  and  playing  as  it  did  above 
a  forehead  broad  and  wide  seemed  to  catch  the  sun- 
light in  its  gold.  His  beardless  face  showed  a  large, 
firm  mouth;  a  jaw  square  and  strong,  that  might 
have  given  to  his  face  an  unpleasant  suggestion  of 


Josefa's  Blue  Silk  21 

predominance  of  will-power,  had  not  the  soft  light 
in  his  blue-gray  eyes  mellowed  his  countenance  into 
a  harmony  of  frankness  and  strength. 

The  rider  was  Charles  Dabney,  a  Virginian,  who 
had  recently  migrated  to  Texas,  and  felt  a  stranger 
in  the  vicinity  of  San  Antonio.  Having  watered 
his  horse  and  refreshed  himself,  he  turned  to  the 
Priest  and  inquired  when  the  riding  would  com- 
mence. As  he  spoke  a  peculiar  light  flickered  over 
the  face  of  Father  Clement,  caused  by  the  prejudice 
his  tongue  revived. 

"I  do  not  speak  English,"  quickly  replied  the 
Jesuit  in  French,  forgetful  he  was  in  a  Spanish- 
speaking  country. 

This  response  brightened  the  face  of  the  stranger, 
for  though  he  had  a  knowledge  of  French,  of  Span- 
ish he  knew  little.  When  he  attempted  to  inform 
the  Priest  of  this  fact  a  smile,  half  smirk  in  its 
leniency,  lurked  near  the  corner  of  the  Frenchman's 
mouth,  for  Dabney  spoke  the  French  of  William  and 
Mary  College  rather  than  the  French  of  Paris  or 
even  Louisiana. 

Father  Clement  having  supplied  all  necessary  in- 
formation, naught  else  remained  to  be  done  than  for 
Dabney  to  mount  his  horse  and  canter  in  the  direc- 
tion whither  the  crowd  had  collected. 

Hardly  was  he  out  of  hearing  before  Jose  fa,  in 
an  outburst  of  enthusiasm  and  that  childlike  confi- 
dence characterizing  her  conversations  with  the 
Priest,  exclaimed  : 

"O  Padre,  it  is  he ;  it  is  he  I" 

"What  meanest  thou  ?"  queried  Father  Clement. 


22  The  Grito 

"Why,  the  prince  whom  you  said  I  might  meet 
today." 

The  Jesuit  shook  his  head  dubiously,  but  Josefa 
was  not  to  be  disenchanted  without  protest,  and 
puckering  her  lips  into  a  pretty  pout  she  sidled  close 
to  the  elderly  man,  saying : 

"If  he  is  not  the  prince,  perhaps  he  is  the  angel 
that  nurse  Chona  believes  will  come  from  the  sun- 
rise land  to  be  a  redeemer ;  what  think  you  ?" 

"That  old  Chona  is  half-heathen,  more  Aztec  than 
Catholic.  An  angel  indeed !  Tiens!  He  looks  too 
English !"  And  the  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders with  the  contemptuous  expression  of  that 
doubter  who  questioned  the  possibility  of  any  good 
thing  coming  out  of  Nazareth. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  PLUME  AND  RAPIER  EXCHANGE  OWNERS 

A  motley  throng  had  collected  on  the  plain  west  of 
the  stream  San  Pedro,  awaiting  the  racing. 

The  idlest  and  most  eager  of  the  spectators  had 
equal  choice  in  selecting  a  favorable  site  for  wit- 
nessing the  riding,  for  between  the  children  of  the 
prairie  the  Prairie  makes  no  difference,  offering  to 
all  alike  the  vantage  ground  of  ample  space. 

The  noisy  Mexicans,  in  broad-brimmed  conical 
sombreros,  short  jackets,  bright  sashes  and  slashed 
breeches,  were  in  marked  contrast  to  the  stoical 
Comanches,  bedecked  with  paint  and  feathers. 
Gaily  dressed  caballeros  on  gaudily  caparisoned 
steeds  showily  cantered  about,  much  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  their  own  vanity ;  while  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  quietly  resting  their  horses,  were  the  Ameri- 
cans, severely  plain  in  suits  of  buckskin. 

The  marshal  on  this  occasion  was  Don  Ramon 
Urrea,  Josefa's  uncle,  by  far  the  most  richly  dressed 
caballero  on  the  grounds.  Already,  with  the  self- 
importance  of  his  conspicuous  position,  he  was  form- 
ing the  equestrians  into  a  column  three  abreast,  giv- 
ing the  preferment  to  his  aristocratic  friends ;  while 
next  to  them  were  positioned  the  Mexicans ;  and  then 
the  Indians;  leaving  the  Americans  to  fall  in  rank 
at  the  rear. 


24  The  Grito 

At  a  given  signal  a  Mexican  lad  threw  a  glove 
to  the  ground,  at  which  each  rider,  in  his  turn,  made 
a  hundred-yard  dash  to  pick  it  up.  A  spear  was  next 
laid  down,  this  contest  being  limited  to  those  who 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  have  secured  the  glove. 
Fewer  yet  were  the  successful,  for  ofttimes  an  Indian 
pony  shied  at  the  sunlight  on  the  spear,  swerving 
as  from  a  serpent ;  while  the  fiery  mustangs  hurried 
by  with  such  rapidity  that  even  a  Mexican  could 
not  always  snatch  it.  The  Americans,  although  they 
rode  well,  equaled  neither  in  agility  nor  dexterity  the 
other  contestants.  The  final  contest  rested  between 
a  Mexican  and  a  Comanche.  To  the  former  was 
awarded  a  fine  dagger,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  the 
Indian,  whose  immobility  of  countenance  would  not 
have  betrayed  him  but  for  the  covetous  glance  of  his 
snakey  eye. 

"Look!"  exclaimed  Father  Clement  to  Josefa; 
"how  beautifully  the  savage  bears  his  defeat.  What- 
ever he  may  feel  he  has  smothered  in  his  breast,  when 
none  of  the  other  riders  would  have  done  so;  he  is 
the  real  victor!" 

Loud  acclamations  of  applause  burst  from  the 
crowd  at  the  Mexican's  success. 

"It  takes  a  fine  rider,"  said  an  onlooker,  "to  beat 
a  Comanche." 

"Aye,"  assented  another,  "for  their  horsemanship 
is  wonderful,  and  of  all  the  copper-colored  devils  in 
that  tribe,  Big  Terrapin  is  the  best  rider." 

"And  the  meanest  Indian,"  declared  a  voice  with 
a  German  accent,  for  it  was  none  other  than  Baron 
cle  Bastrop's;  and  turning  to  Charles  Dabney,  in 
whom  he  recognized  a  stranger,  he  continued: 


A  Plume  and  Rapier  Exchange  Owners       25 

"  'Twas  before  your  day  the  last  time  the  Comanches 
tried  to  wipe  out  this  little  settlement,  way  back  in 
the  early  twenties,  when  I  was  alcalde;  but  we  who 
experienced  it  will  never  forget  that  night.  A 
blacker  night  I  never  saw.  The  red  devils  crept 
upon  the  sentinels  like  panthers  and  soon  silenced 
them.  Then  leaping  from  house  to  house  with 
tomahawk  in  hand,  committed  deeds  such  as  only 
savages  could  have  planned.  The  shrieks  of  the 
women,  the  cries  of  the  children  and  the  bloodcurd- 
ling war-whoop  still  echo  in  my  ears — and  Big  Ter- 
rapin was  the  ringleader/ 

"He's  a  big  Injun/'  interrupted  a  backwoodsman ; 
"a  big  brave.  I've  hearn  tell  how  nobody  can  kill 
him,  ain't  you,  Smith  ?" 

The  trapper  addressed  did  not  seem  to  hear  the 
question,  for  he  was  looking  another  way. 

"You  might  as  well  talk  to  a  stone  as  to  Deaf 
Smith,"  some  one  remarked. 

"He  can  hear  Henry  Karnes  all  right,  if  he  can 
see  his  mouth,  for  we've  trapped  too  much  together 
not  to  understand  each  other."  And  catching 
Smith's  eye  the  question  was  repeated  in  a  voice  so 
soft  that  it  bordered  on  effeminacy.  This  time 
Deaf  Smith  nodded  his  head  corroboratively  as  he 
answered : 

"Yip,  that's  true.  They  tell  me  no  arrow  or  bullet 
can  pierce  his  hide  and  that's  howcome  folks  gin 
him  the  name  of  Terrapin.  Whatever  hits  him  flies 
off  like  his  skin  was  a  shell." 

"And  among  other  tribes,"  interrupted  trapper 
Karnes,  "like  the  Apaches,  Lipans  and  Campeachys, 
they  is  skeart  of  the  very  name  o'  Terrapin.  Their 


26  The  Grito 

medicine  men  swar  he's  a  charmed  life,  and  tell 
how  at  the  sun-dance,  when  a  buck,  his  bravery  and 
grit  was  sich  as  their  oldest  warriors  had  never 
seen." 

Here  the  talk  ceased,  as  a  diversity  of  entertain- 
ment distracted  their  attention.  At  Don  Ramon's 
command  a  bull's-eye  target  was  set  up  and  marks- 
manship was  tested  with  horses  at  full  speed.  Some 
of  the  Indians  used  bows,  sitting  erect  on  bareback 
horses,  while  others,  swinging  to  their  ponies'  sides, 
shot  pistols  under  their  necks,  hitting  the  mark  with 
wonderful  accuracy.  The  Mexicans  were  not  to  be 
outdone,  for  they  dismounted  and  remounted  their 
flying  mustangs  and  then  fired  with  the  assurance 
of  success  born  only  with  prolonged  practice.  The 
American,  though  achieving  no  such  circus  feats, 
leveled  his  rifle  and  shot  with  unerring  aim,  win- 
ning the  grudged  admiration  of  even  the  proud 
caballeros.  •-• 

It  was  the  American,  who,  after  many  ties,  re- 
ceived the  brace  of  pistols  in  acknowledgment  of 
his  skill. 

Charles  Dabney,  watching  from  horseback  the 
success  of  his  compatriot,  cheered  lustily  and  long 
at  this  decision ;  so  that  Don  Ramon,  noting  his  en- 
thusiasm, turned  to  his  friend  Castrillo,  saying: 

"Caramba!    Who  in  the  devil  is  he?" 

"An  Americano  that  can  hold  his  own  in  a  fight, 
I  should  say,  though  I  have  never  seen  him  before." 

The  day  was  to  close  with  a  gala  event,  a  result 
of  a  challenge  between  the  acknowledged  best  Mexi- 
can and  Indian  riders. 


A  Plume  and  Rapier  Exchange  Owners        27 

Two  blindfolded  horses,  never  ridden  before,  were 
half  driven  and  dragged,  sulking  and  plunging,  from 
a  nearby  corral.  The  sight  was  now  an  interesting 
and  anxious  one,  riveting  all  eyes  in  eager  expect- 
ancy. The  Mexican  had  the  choice  of  the  horses. 
He  picked  the  larger  animal,  a  black  of  considerable 
size,  and  to  all  appearances  strong;  while  the  other, 
a  piebald  mustang,  was  left  to  the  Indian. 

The  Comanche  surveyed  him  with  a  feeling  of 
pride,  for  looking  at  his  high  withers  he  felt  sure 
he  could  sit  him  well.  Though  not  as  tall  as  the 
black,  his  neck  resembled  a  game-cock's  and  his  ears 
were  small,  fine  and  pointed.  Stepping  to  his  side, 
Big  Terrapin  sought  with  caresses  to  gentle  him. 
Placing  his  hand  on  the  mustang's  nose,  he  patted 
him.  At  first  the  horse  neighed,  dilating  wide  his 
big  nostrils,  but  soon  stopped  and  began  sniffing  the 
air,  as  if  smelling  the  Indian,  for  a  Comanche  can  be 
trusted  to  make  friends  with  a  horse  like  a  beggar 
will  with  a  dog.  After  stroking  his  coarse,  rough 
mane,  he  next  whispered  in  the  animal's  ear.  What 
he  said  no  one  except  the  horse  heard,  but  perhaps 
it  was  an  assurance  to  the  dumb  animal  that  he  too 
was  a  fellow-creature  of  the  plain.  The  horse  soon 
stopped  quivering,  and  seemingly  less  frightened, 
forthwith  allowed  Big  Terrapin  to  mount,  for  bare- 
back the  Indian  preferred  to  ride. 

It  was  the  Mexican's  wish,  however,  to  use  a  sad- 
dle, to  which  his  horse  was  violently  opposed. 
Despite  kicking,  rearing  and  chafing,  after  laborious 
effort  the  girth  was  cinched  securely,  while  the  black 
vented  his  fury  in  snorts  of  defiance.  Mounting 
him  proved  as  great  a  difficulty.  How  long  he  could 


28  The  Grito 

keep  his  saddle,  the  riskiest  bettor  would  scarce 
have  ventured  to  predict.  As  soon  as  it  was  feasible 
the  bandages  were  removed  from  the  horses'  eyes. 
The  piebald,  with  long,  graceful  strides,  bounded 
across  the  plain,  the  Indian's  figure  swaying  in 
rhythm  with  every  motion,  so  that  man  and  beast 
seemed  blended  into  a  centaur. 

With  the  Mexican  it  was  different.  Though  he 
urged  on  his  steed  with  quirt  and  spur,  it  was  to 
no  avail,  for  after  the  first  tremendous  plunge  the 
animal  stopped  short  and  began  to  pitch  and  rear. 
With  ears  pressed  close  to  his  head  the  black  sud- 
denly ran  forward  and  let  shower  a  torrent  of  kicks. 
Failing  to  unseat  the  Mexican,  he  commenced  to 
buck  most  violently.  Tugging  doggedly  on  the 
heavy  Spanish  bit  he  finally  got  his  head  between 
his  forelegs  and  then  seesawed,  rearing  and  kicking 
high  and  twisting  in  midair,  trying  to  tear  the  rider 
off  by  the  leg,  biting  at  it  viciously.  In  spite  of  dig 
of  spur,  volley  of  blows  rained  on  by  quirt,  the 
severe  jerks  and  yanks  on  the  cruel  bit,  soon  the 
black  refused  to  go,  though  flecked  with  foam  and 
blood. 

The  mottled  mustang,  meanwhile,  had  made  a 
good  beginning  and  seemed  likely  to  make  a  good 
ending,  for  the  Indian  had  mastered  his  steed  and 
toward  the  goal  they  sped,  when  an  accident 
occurred  as  unavoidable  as  it  was  unseen. 

One  of  the  platitudes  of  the  prairie  is,  "Nobody 
but  a  fool  or  a  stranger  ever  predicts  the  weather 
in  Texas."  Hence  this  day,  that  had  dawned  bright 
and  mild,  had  now  grown  gray  and  windy.  The 
Comanche  turned  his  head  as  he  flew  by  the  line 


A  Plume  and  Rapier  Exchange  Owners       29 

of  spectators,  attracted  by  their  laughter  at  the 
bucking  broncho.  Just  as  he  did  so,  a  flurry  of 
wind  took  Josefa's  hat  off,  blowing  it  directly  in 
front  of  his  mustang's  feet,  causing  him  to  shy 
and  jump.  The  Comanche  was  thrown  violently, 
so  unexpected  and  quick  were  the  wild  animal's 
movements,  whose  speed  never  slackened;  on  the 
contrary,  feeling  no  restraining  influence,  his  gait 
increased  and  he  was  fast  disappearing  in  the 
distance  when  Big  Terrapin,  slightly  stunned, 
scrambled  unsteadily  to  his  feet.  Casting  his  eyes 
after  the  runaway,  he  saw  to  recapture  him  was 
hopeless,  so  picking  up  the  hat  lying  near,  the 
Indian  began  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  women 
for  its  owner. 

Distressed  and  grieved,  Josef  a  and  the  Priest 
came  slowly  forward,  and  as  the  girl  received  her 
hat  she  pulled  out  the  long  white  ostrich  plume 
and  silently  handed  it  to  the  Chief;  while  Father 
Clement,  by  looks  and  gestures  rather  than  words, 
conveyed  some  meaning  of  their  sorrow  for  the 
accident. 

The  people  realizing  the  Comanche's  skill  in  the 
manner  he  had  gentled  the  mustang,  burst  forth 
in  cheers,  for  though  the  Mexican  remained  in  his 
saddle,  yet  all  present  realized  Big  Terrapin  was 
really  the  better  horseman. 

As  soon  as  opportunity  offered  itself,  Father 
Clement  sought  the  Chief,  not  only  to  compliment 
his  bearing,  but  also  to  present  him  with  his  rapier 
of  Toledo  finish,  the  like  of  which  the  Comanche 
had  never  seen. 


30  The  Grito 

The  crowd  was  now  dispersing.  Many  of  the 
Mexicans,  drunk  from  mescal,  rode  recklessly  along, 
unheeding  the  safety  of  pedestrians.  Toward  San 
Antonio  Charles  Dabney  directed  his  way.  Rather 
to  the  side  of  the  road  he  kept,  paying  little  attention 
to  his  horse,  which  had  settled  into  a  dog-trot;  for 
if  truth  be  known,  he  was  busily  scanning  the  passers, 
hoping  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  the  beautiful 
senorita  whose  hat  had  brought  defeat  to  the  sav- 
age. In  this  he  was  disappointed,  for  Father  Clem- 
ent and  Josefa,  familiar  with  the  country,  had  taken 
a  nearer  way  to  the  city.  By  crossing  a  field  they 
were  enabled  to  cut  short  the  distance  by  half, 
reaching  the  highway  where  it  connected  with  the 
main  street  of  San  Antonio. 

As  they  neared  this  point  a  cloud  of  dust,  together 
with  the  rattle  of  horses'  hoofs,  announced  the  com- 
ing of  a  cavalcade.  Glancing  at  them,  Josefa 
thought  at  first  they  were  Mexicans  racing;  but  on 
looking  closer  she  saw  the  foremost  horse  was  run- 
ning away.  The  terror  and  speed  of  the  frightened 
animal  was  increased  by  the  loud  and  boisterous 
shouts  of  the  drunken  men,  urging  on  their  horses 
in  hot  pursuit. 

The  girl  was  not  slow  to  realize  a  terrible  acci- 
dent was  imminent,  and  shutting  her  eyes  she  ner- 
vously clutched  the  Priest's  hand.  That  the  rider's 
horse  was  utterly  beyond  his  control  would  hardly 
have  alarmed  Father  Clement,  for  he  knew  ere  long 
the  animal  would  spend  his  strength ;  but  the  street 
he  was  entering  was  narrow  and  in  it  walked  a 
group  of  people  seemingly  unconscious  of  danger. 
The  grown  ones,  the  Jesuit  felt,  were  fully  able  to 


A  Plume  and  Rapier  Exchange  Owners        31 

take  care  of  themselves,  but  for  the  children  he  was 
most  anxious.  His  fears  were  soon  realized,  for  at 
that  instant  he  saw  the  rider,  with  a  momentous 
jerk,  pull  back  his  horse  just  as  his  forefeet  grazed 
a  little  girl  whom  a  man  snatched  to  the  safety  of 
his  arms. 

The  horse  recoiled  upon  his  haunches,  and  all 
might  have  been  well  had  not  the  girth  broken, 
sending  rider  and  saddle  to  the  ground  with  great 
force. 

In  his  effort  to  hold  the  runaway,  Dabney,  having 
wrapped  the  bridle  about  his  hand,  gave  the  horse 
another  jerk  when  thrown,  pulling  him  backward, 
so  that  man  and  beast  rolled  on  the  ground  together. 

"Moy  hermossa  caballo,  a  very  fine  horse !"  sighed 
an  old  Mexican,  who  had  come  out  of  his  adobe  to 
see  what  was  happening,  and  whose  sympathy  was 
more  for  the  beast  than  the  American. 

Jose  fa  knew  something  terrible  had  occurred, 
though  she  did  not  see  it,  for  the  Priest  shook  loose 
her  grasp  and  hastened  to  the  injured  man.  His 
experience  in  the  wars  of  France  had  familiarized 
him  with  accidents,  making  him  quick  to  act  in  emer- 
gencies. With  gentle  hands  he  examined  the  suf- 
ferer, informing  the  bystanders  that  unless  internally 
injured  a  broken  leg  was  the  worst  result  he  could 
discover. 

In  the  group  of  onlookers  were  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Dickinson,  whose  little  daughter  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  the  accident. 

"He  is  a  stranger,"  the  Priest  remarked. 

"And  an  American,"  observed  Captain  Dickin- 
son; adding,  "Sue,  we  must  take  him  to  our  home." 


32  The  Grito 

"Yes,"  she  sobbed,  "that  we  may  nurse  him,  for 
he  risked  his  life  to  save  our  child." 

A  stretcher  was  soon  improvised,  and  among 
those  helping  to  carry  the  stranger  were  the  Captain 
and  the  Priest.  With  Mrs.  Dickinson  and  the  little 
daughter,  followed  Josefa,  weeping  bitterly,  for  the 
blood  that  gushed  from  Dabney's  nose  when  he  fell 
still  covered  his  face,  making  him  a  gory  spec- 
tacle. 

The  trying  ordeal  of  having  his  leg  set  the  Vir- 
ginian bore  with  a  courageous  calmness  surprising 
to  the  Frenchman,  who  acted  as  surgeon.  When 
this  was  done  the  sufferer  was  given  a  tea  of  herbs, 
both  stimulating  and  soothing.  His  sighs  gradually 
gave  way  and  even  breathing  denoted  that  he  had 
fallen  in  a  deep  sleep,  indicative  not  so  much  of 
exhaustion  as  that  he  rested  comfortably.  The 
Jesuit  remained  with  him  all  that  night,  but  Josefa 
did  not  linger  at  the  Dickinson  cabin,  for  there  was 
nothing  she  could  do.  To  the  restful  quietude  of 
her  adobe  she  hastened,  to  throw  herself  into  old 
Chona's  motherly  arms  and  pour  into  her  willing 
ears  all  the  happenings  of  that  eventful  day.  Long 
hours  these  two  talked,  with  the  blessed  assurance 
of  not  being  disturbed,  for  Don  Ramon,  the  cabal- 
lero,  the  bacchanalian,  returned  not  to  his  home  that 
night. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  FRIENDSHIP  IS  FORMED 

During  the  time  the  Virginian's  limb  forced  him 
to  remain  indoors,  frequently  Josefa,  with  the  Priest 
or  old  Chona,  visited  the  Dickinson  cabin,  and  be- 
tween her  and  Mother  Dickinson  a  friendship  was 
developing  that  was  to  prove  a  bulwark  of  strength 
in  the  future.  With  Dabney,  too,  she  had  become 
acquainted  in  a  shy,  gazelle-like  way.  Large 
bunches  of  flowers  and  luscious  fruits  she  would 
often  bring,  the  like  of  which  the  sick  man  had 
never  seen. 

It  gave  the  Virginian  a  peculiar  pleasure  to  look 
upon  her  gifts,  especially  the  flowers;  no  richer  or 
redder  were  they  than  Josefa' s  own  bright  lips  nor 
more  velvety  than  the  damask  of  her  soft,  clear,  olive 
skin.  The  perfume  they  imparted  to  the  room  was 
languorous  with  the  languor  pervading  the  atmos- 
phere of  San  Antonio — the  languor  of  honey-filled 
flowers  and  the  droning  of  bees.  The  pervasion  of 
perfume  which  the  air  wafted,  gentle  as  a  caress, 
filled  the  sick-room.  Streaming  through  the  door- 
way and  window  it  came,  even  percolating  the 
chinks  in  the  logs.  Nature  was  typifying  condi- 
tions. It  was  an  object  lesson  of  the  great  truth 
time  was  teaching:  The  blending  of  the  sweet  with 


34  The  Grito 

the  useful;  the  welding  of  the  sentimental  with  the 
essential.  The  aroma,  the  odor,  and  presence  of 
flowers  made  the  cabin  more  attractive,  giving  that 
home  touch  without  which  a  palace  differs  little 
from  a  hovel. 

True,  the  cabin  was  clean  and  comfortable.  The 
bed,  chairs  and  table,  though  of  plain  material, 
fashioned  by  a  rude  mechanic,  harmonized  with  the 
house.  The  puncheon  floor,  smooth  and  white,  be- 
spoke the  industry  of  the  housewife,  while  the  skill 
of  the  sportsman  was  indicated  by  three  monstrous 
antlers  serving  as  a  rifle-rack  that  hung  above  the 
mantel-shelf. 

Near  the  fireplace  was  spread  the  skin  of  an  ante- 
lop,  dappled  and  slick.  On  the  hearthstone,  always 
ready,  set  a  coffeepot,  the  Texan's  luxury — without 
which  no  welcome  was  ever  deemed  complete. 

Yet  Mother  Dickinson  sitting  there  with  her  knit- 
ting, as  well  as  Dabney,  felt  the  influence  of  Josef  a' s 
flowers.  They  added  the  right  touch  of  color, 
breathing  the  tenderness  of  thought  and  of  senti- 
ment, so  that  the  frontierswoman  kept  time  to  the 
click  of  her  needles  by  humming  a  snatch  from  an 
old  love  tune  that  she  had  not  sung  in  years. 

Captain  Dickinson  also  felt  their  spell,  and  the 
influence  made  him  reminiscent.  Tilting  back  his 
chair  so  as  to  better  stretch  his  long  limbs,  he  opened 
his  mouth  as  if  to  yawn,  but  a  sigh  slipped  forth 
instead.  Then  locking  his  rough,  sinewy  fingers 
behind  his  head,  he  half-closed  his  eyes  dreamily 
and  began: 

"I  was  jist  waiting  for  that  little  Mexican  gal  to 
go  home  to  tell  you  all  about  her — seeing  her  and 


A  Friendship  is  Formed  35 

Father  Clement  have  shown  themselves  so  friendly. 
I  always  felt  kinder  sorry  for  her  some  way,  maybe 
'cause  that  uncle  of  hers  is  sich  a  darn  rascal ;  maybe 
'cause  she  ain't  got  no  dad  of  her  own;  and  maybe 
'cause  she's  so  pretty  with  them  big  black  eyes  al- 
ways shining  with  fun. 

"I  reckon  how  'tain't  likely  you've  ever  heard  how 
her  daddy  got  killed,  being  as  you  are  a  stranger 
and  it  happened  so  long  ago.  You  see  I  recollect  it 
well,  'cause  'twas  when  I  fust  come  'bout  here  and 
was  new  to  the  country — so  natur'lly  it  made  a  great 
impression.  'Twas  the  fust  time,  too,  I  ever  saw 
Jim  Bowie,  though  I'd  heard  'nough  of  him,  and  I 
b'lieve  all  I  heard  when  I  saw  him  kill  that  old 
Spaniard  dead  as  a  herring." 

Here  the  speaker  shifted  his  quid  of  tobacco  be- 
fore resuming.  "The  Mexicans  had  jist  finished  one 
of  their  ditches,  acequias  they  call  'em,,  and  were 
having  a  fiesta.  They  are  forever  having  fiestas. 
Well,  the  padre  had  blessed  the  water  and  they  had 
planted  cactus  'longside  the  ditch  to  keep  off  the 
cattle.  Then  all  hands  that  had  helped,  either  by 
money  or  work,  went  to  the  Suerte,  which  wa'n't 
nothin'  more  nor  less  than  a  lottery  for  'em  to  draw 
lots  for  the  ownership  of  the  land  watered  by  the 
ditch.  Now,  if  'tis  anything  these  Mexicans  hate, 
'tis  to  see  the  Americans  getting  a  foothold,  for  it 
hurts  'em  worse  to  give  up  this  land  than  it  does  us 
to  part  with  our  scalps.  Well,  'fore  anybody  knew 
what  was  brewing,  hot  words  had  passed  'twixt 
Bowie  and  the  old  Don.  The  Spaniard  was  a  blue- 
blood  and  a  famous  swordsman,  but  he  met  his 
match  that  day,  and  though  I  saw  it  with  my  own 


36  The  Grito 

eyes,  it  beats  me  to  tell  how  it  was  done.  The  men 
used  knives,  sir,  and  fought  with  their  left  hands 
tied  together.  Bowie  jist  somehow  jerked  back, 
and  shielding  his  breast  with  his  tied  arm,  lunged 
with  all  his  strength  against  the  Spaniard,  burying 
his  knife  in  his  heart.  The  man  dropped  without 
uttering  a  sound;  and  cool  as  a  cucumber,  Bowie 
cut  the  thong  that  bound  him  to  the  corpse,  wiped 
the  blood  from  his  knife,  and  putting  it  in  the 
sheath,  said.  'Damn  it !  one  of  us  had  to  die  and  it 
might  as  well  been  him!'  That  was  all,  sir,  but  I 
never  saw  the  like." 

"Did  it  end  there?"  Dabney  queried. 

"Well — yes.  Old  Urrea  had  a  great  following 
and  nothing  on  God's  green  earth  kept  'em  from 
tearing  Bowie  to  pieces  but  his  Mexican  wife.  She 
was  the  Governor's  daughter  and  that  saved  him, 
along  with  his  own  bravery.  Folks  stand  in  awe  of 
him,  'cause  he  don't  know  what  fear  means;  but 
he's  open  as  the  day.  You  may  have  heard  him 
spoken  of  as  a  ruffian  and  a  drunkard,  which  is  all 
a  black  lie.  These  are  times  that  make  men  reckless, 
but  Jim  Bowie's  heart  is  in  the  right  place  and  there 
ain't  a  gentler  man  living,  especially  to  women- 
folks. 

"The  old  Spaniard,  Urrea,  didn't  leave  but  one 
child,  that  little  gal,  Josefa;  and  when  Bowie  heard 
how  he  had  made  her  an  orphan  it  most  broke  his 
heart.  She's  certainly  grown  into  a  beauty,  and  the 
old  Priest  looks  after  her.  I  lay  you  never  met  a 
mixture  like  him  before — mild  as  a  May  morn  but 
sharp  as  a  steel  trap.  I  ain't  much  on  priests  nor 
preachering;  but  Father  Clement — well,  he's  differ- 


A  Friendship  is  Formed  37 

ent  somehow,  and  I  b'lieve  if  I  knew  he  would  say  a 
mass  for  my  soul  it  would  make  me  rest  easier  down 
in  my  grave." 

The  frontiersman  shot  a  quick,  furtive  glance 
around  the  room,  as  if  ashamed  of  having  voiced 
this  thought;  then  completely  changing  his  tone, 
continued : 

"Soon  as  you  git  well  enough,  I  want  to  take 
you  over  to  the  fort  to  see  Bowie  and  the  boys. 
I  myself  am  one  of  the  garrison.  You  know  we 
Americans  have  been  in  possession  of  the  Alamo 
ever  since  that  night  when  old  Ben  Milam  led  us  into 
San  'Tone.  That  was  a  hard  fight,  a  five  days' 
fight,  and  these  old  streets  ran  with  blood;  but  it 
showed  the  Mexicans  we  wa'nt  going  to  knuckle 
under  to  their  tyranny — and  now  that  we've  got 
possession  of  the  Alamo,  we'll  see  snowing  in  hell 
before  we'll  give  it  up  again  to  the  damn  Greasers." 

Arising,  Dickinson  crossed  the  room,  took  a 
gourd  full  of  water  from  the  bucket,  stepped  to  the 
door,  rinsed  out  his  mouth,  quaffed  a  draught, 
whistled  for  Clinch,  and  with  the  dog  close  at  his 
heels,  left  the  cabin. 

Other  matters  claiming  Father  Clement's  time,  it 
happened  several  days  elapsed  without  Dabney's 
seeing  him,  so  that  the  invalid  grew  restless  for  his 
coming,  and  when  the  Priest  entered  the  Dickinson 
cabin  the  Virginian's  face  mirrored  the  joy  he  felt. 

"You  are  fast  mending,  monsieur ;  far  better  do  I 
find  you,"  was  Father  Clement's  greeting. 

"How  do  you  know?"  laughingly  asked  Dabney. 

"Because  you  are  smiling,"  quickly  came  the  an- 
swer; "for  the  really  sick  in  mind  or  body  seldom 


38  The  Grito 

laugh — whereby  a  smile  means  much,"  continued 
the  Jesuit,  and  seating  himself  by  the  bedside  he 
took  Dabney's  hand  to  feel  his  pulse,  although  the 
Virginian  knew  it  not.  "Methinks,"  he  added,  "had 
it  been  my  privilege  to  ask  from  mon  Dieu  a  bless- 
ing, I  would  not  have  had  the  wisdom  of  the  Hebrew 
king  to  have  desired  more — but  I  should  have  cov- 
eted the  blessing  to  make  people  happy,  to  have  made 
them  laugh,  for  jesters  have  their  place  in  the  world 
as  well  as  Solomons  and  they  are  often  more  popu- 
lar," affirmed  the  Priest,  as  if  he  knew  whereof  he 
spoke. 

When  a  broken  limb  makes  a  man  helpless  for 
weeks  it  is  a  gratification  to  have  any  one  stop  to 
inquire  how  he  fares;  but  when  the  caller  is  a  con- 
genial soul,  who,  besides  cheering  words  of  com- 
fort, brings  within  the  sick-room  a  refreshing 
breath  of  the  outside  world,  the  visit  is  in  truth  a 
benediction. 

The  friends  of  the  Dickinsons  who  came  to  ask 
after  Dabney  did  not  interest  him  as  did  the  Priest. 
Father  Clement,  although  he  might  not  have  ac- 
knowledged it,  also  soon  ceased  to  look  upon  his 
ministrations  to  the  Virginian  in  the  light  of  the 
good  Samaritan,  having  grown  interested  in  him 
as  an  individual ;  for  kindred  tastes  and  intelligence 
can  forge  more  binding  friendships  than  all  the 
links  of  uncongenial  goodness.  Yet  one  great  bar- 
rier stood  in  the  way — Dabney's  English  appear- 
ance; for  Father  Clement  had  a  prejudice  against 
the  English  dating  back  to  Waterloo.  And  as  the 
weeks  slipped  by,  bringing  the  two  nearer  together 
with  that  intimacy  born  of  a  longer  knowledge,  the 


A  Friendship  is  Formed  39 

Priest  made  bold  to  mention  this  prejudice.  The 
Virginian's  reply  was  a  pleasant  surprise,  for  he 
told  how  his  forebears  had  crossed  the  Channel 
with  William  the  Norman,  and  the  Frenchman  hear- 
ing this  felt  pleased,  remembering  that  meant  a  vic- 
tory for  France,  for  France  over  England.  His 
eyes  brightened  as  the  young  man  proceeded  to 
relate,  with  that  knowledge  of  family  history  char- 
acteristic of  Virginians,  that  in  those  old  days,  as 
their  shields  in  Battle  Abbey  showed,  the  name  was 
not  spelled  Dabney  but  Daubigney.  Hearing  this 
the  Priest  arose,  and  seizing  the  speaker's  hand 
shook  it  with  a  hearty  grasp,  as  if  being  introduced 
to  another  creature,  for  though  Dabney  might  look 
English,  yet  his  blood  flowed  from  a  French  foun- 
tain-head, making  Father  Clement  eager  to  hail  him 
as  a  compatriot  in  that  wild  prairie  country  so  far 
from  his  native  land. 

This  would  have  been  all  sufficient  had  the  nar- 
rator stopped  then  and  there — the  Priest  was  his 
friend  for  life;  but  other  things  remained  to  be  told 
and  Dabney  saw  fit  to  tell  them;  how  at  Mount 
Vernon  his  grandmother  had  smiled  and  courtesied 
to  her  partner,  General  Lafayette,  while  from  the 
harpsichord  sounded  the  measures  of  the  stately 
minuet. 

The  Frenchman  had  grown  very  much  interested, 
and  when  Dabney  told  that  his  grandmother  had 
held  in  her  own  hand  the  key  to  the  Bastile,  pre- 
sented to  Washington  by  the  admiring  Lafayette,  he 
became  wildly  excited. 

"It  all  seems  impossible!"  he  exclaimed.  "To 
have  known  the  immortal  Lafayette  and  to  have 


40  The  Grito 

seen  with  one's  own  eyes  the  key  to  the  Bastile! 
More  interesting  than  a  letter  from  home  do  I  find 
you,  Monsieur  Daubigney.  And  this  good  George 
Washington  with  his  two  little  stepchildren  re- 
minds me  of  Napoleon  and  Hortense  and  Eugene. 
How  rejoiced  I  am  Washington  licked  the  British, 
though  it  behooves  me  not  as  a  priest  to  say  so,  yet 
I  feel  it  in  truth."  And  the  elderly  man  laughed  as 
he  added:  "Now,  I  will  make  you  a  little  confes- 
sion, for  I  am  trying  to  work  out  my  absolution. 
Father  Clement  is  a  priest,  but  the  old  Adam  was 
a  soldier  born.  When  the  wars  of  France  closed 
I  enlisted  with  the  Church  militant  and  now  I  am 
trying  to  conquer  myself.  But  it  is  a  great  struggle 
for  which  I  sought  the  wilderness,  and  lo!  Provi- 
dence directed  my  steps  here.  It  is  easy  though  to 
say  Thy  will  be  done'  in  a  land  like  this ;  for  Texas, 
with  its  mild  climate  and  mellow  skies,  reminds  me 
of  my  own  beautiful  France. 

"It  is  also  pleasant  to  recall,"  the  Priest  contin- 
ued, "the  fleur-de-lis,  that  emblem  of  the  Trinity, 
was  the  first  flag  ever  to  float  over  this  prairie  coun- 
try, because  like  baptizing  a  new-born  babe  it  was 
started  aright." 

"But,"  supplemented  Dabney,  "the  trail  of  the 
serpent  now  covers  the  land." 

"As  it  does  all  lands,"  agreed  the  Jesuit.  And 
purposely  misconstruing  Dabney's  remark,  added : 
"The  serpent  escorted  man  out  of  Eden,  and  ever 
since  has  been  his  steadfast  attendant." 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  Mexican  emblem — the 
serpent,"  explained  Dabney. 


A  Friendship  is  Formed  41 

"It  takes  a  wise  man,"  declared  Father  Clement, 
"to  think  to  himself." 

Then  tightly  compressing  his  lips,  the  Jesuit 
looked  out  of  the  window,  to  give  the  Virginian 
opportunity  to  digest  the  rebuke ;  not  that  the  Priest 
was  angry,  but  such  was  his  way. 

Dabney  had  taken  deep  root  in  his  affections,  for 
these  two  men  met  on  the  plane  of  having  known  a 
higher  and  different  life — hence  could  talk  to  each 
other  with  an  assurance  of  appreciation  such  as 
could  not  be  vouchsafed  of  any  other  in  San  An- 
tonio. Starvation  for  society  such  as  the  Virgin- 
ian's the  Jesuit  had  often  felt,  and  now  that  Dab- 
ney could  supply  it,  the  Frenchman  accepted  him  at 
his  face  value.  Still,  Father  Clement  was  human, 
and  so  that  curiosity  common  to  all  flesh  made  him 
long  to  know  the  secret  of  Dabney's  soul.  That  his 
taste  was  not  that  of  an  adventurer  nor  an  ascetic 
the  discerning  Frenchman  was  confident,  his  experi- 
ence as  a  priest  having  made  him  shrewd  in  reading 
human  nature.  He  felt  certain  some  secret  caused 
the  stranger's  coming  into  their  frontier  life.  Pre- 
cisely what  it  was  he  could  not  guess,  and  though 
Father  Clement  had  tried,  yet  never  had  he  suc- 
ceeded in  eliciting  from  the  Virginian  any  reason 
for  his  being  in  Texas. 

The  invalid  had  often  spoken  of  his  home;  of  the 
patriarchal  feeling  existing  between  the  manor- 
house  and  the  quarters ;  also  of  his  college  days  in  old 
Williamsburg ;  but  never  a  word  or  hint  was 
dropped  that  would  serve  as  a  clue  for  his  mi- 
gration. The  Jesuit,  however,  was  man  of  the  world 
enough  to  appreciate  that  no  one  with  Dabney's  dis- 


42  The  Grito 

position  sought  the  desert  without  a  motive.  The 
more  he  grew  to  love  him,  the  greater  became  his 
interest ;  for  it  grieved  the  Frenchman  to  think  there 
was  a  niche  in  the  Virginian's  heart  too  sacred  for 
his  eyes  to  see.  Besides  these  yearnings  of  friend- 
ship, Father  Clement  felt  the  solicitude  of  a  priest. 
Might  not  that  recess  veiled  by  silence  contain  some 
idol  which  would  do  the  man  eternal  injury,  in  that 
already  it  had  made  him  an  exile?  was  a  question 
over  which  the  Priest  pondered,  until  his  jealousy 
for  Dabney's  welfare  and  happiness  was  so  aroused 
he  determined  to  settle  it  once  for  all. 

"How  do  you  like  this  new  country,  now  that  you 
are  well  enough  to  glean  from  your  own  observation 
some  knowledge  of  our  frontier  life?"  he  asked. 

"Fairly  well,"  was  the  Virginian's  laconic  reply; 
which  brevity  was  not  displeasing  to  the  French- 
man, who  wished  to  paddle  the  conversation  to  the 
drift  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"You  know,"  the  Jesuit  continued,  "there  is  a 
maxim  that  says,  'Coming  to  Texas  means  changing 
one's  name.'  Now,  for  instance,  you  mon  ami,  are 
styled  Monsieur  Daubigney."  The  Priest  laughed 
lightly,  then  ruminated : 

"Texas,  Texas  is  a  curious  word.  Tradition  tells 
when  the  earliest  whites  came  to  this  land  the  In- 
dians in  welcome  hailed  them  as  'Tehias,  Tehias/ 
which  meant  'Friends,  Friends.'  It  is  a  beautiful 
legend,  for  still  the  land  gives  the  same  greeting  to 
newcomers;  so  that  I  have  likened  it  myself  to  the 
Cave  of  Adullam,  for  to  Texas  seem  to  flock  the 
disappointed,  the  discontented,  the  unhappy — " 
Father  Clement  paused  before  continuing : 


A  Friendship  is  Formed  43 

"It  is  a  blessing  that  God's  confines  hold  space 
for  such  as  these,  where  under  the  influence  of  eter- 
nal sunshine  and  the  warming  comradeship  of 
fellow-feeling  a  better  life  may  be  possible,  for  there 
is  goodness  and  greatness  inborn  in  every  breast,  as 
the  soul  is  a  spark  of  celestial  fire." 

The  Virginian's  attitude  while  listening  was  that 
of  respectful  attention,  but  the  Priest  dared  not  pry 
further,  for  there  was  something  in  Dabney's  ex- 
pression that  froze  inquisitiveness. 

In  his  anxiety  to  dispel  any  chilliness  that  his  re- 
marks might  have  engendered,  Father  Clement 
broke  the  silence  by  pointing  to  a  pioneer  who 
chanced  to  be  passing.  The  twilight's  indistinct 
haze  prevented  the  Jesuit  from  recognizing  him  as 
Deaf  Smith,  so  that  he  referred  to  him  as  a  type 
rather  than  a  character. 

"Look!"  said  the  Priest,  "there  goes  one  of  the 
world's  wonders — the  pioneer.  Rough,  tough,  and 
weather-stained,  he  is  the  living  bulwark  of  strength 
between  the  settler  and  the  Indian.  With  one  foot 
on  civilization  and  one  on  savagery,  the  pioneer 
stands  like  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,,  spanning  a  space 
through  which  the  tide  of  progress  passes.  The  dan- 
gers of  the  plain,  the  hardships  of  the  forest  are  the 
pleasures  of  his  existence  and  the  conquest  of  the  wil- 
derness will  be  his  victory,  though  his  only  crown 
is  a  coon-skin  cap." 

The  Jesuit  saw  now  the  opportunity  of  sending 
another  shaft,  and  so  turning  to  Dabney  he  added : 

"Pardon  me,  perhaps  I  weary  you.  It  may  be 
you  do  not  share  my  enthusiastic  admiration  for 


44  The  Grito 

these  sturdy  beings  whose  lives  so  differ  from  our 
own." 

The  Virginian,  however,  was  not  to  be  surprised 
into  a  confession.  With  that  subtlety  which  amused 
while  it  baffled  the  Priest,  he  replied : 

"When  I  was  a  boy  tales  of  Indian  hunters  inter- 
ested me  more  than  'all  Gaul  or  any  of  the  three 
parts/  I  was  a  youth  then — I  am  a  man  now ;  the 
reality  of  life  scarcely  bears  out  the  imagery  of  our 
dreams." 

"No,"  replied  Father  Clement,  "but  experience, 
though  a  nightmare,  is  better  than  mere  dreaming, 
at  least  in  the  development  of  character.  You,  Mon- 
sieur Daubigney,  have  not  the  pioneer  nature;  for 
if  you  had,  though  circumstances  might  have  pre- 
vented its  development,  as  long  as  life  lasted  within 
your  breast,  like  Memnon's  cry  to  the  sun,  there 
would  have  been  the  call  of  the  forest.  Every  fibre 
within  your  nature  would  have  responded  like  an 
^Eolian  harp  to  whiffs  from  the  wilderness." 

The  Frenchman  had  become  enthused — his  eyes 
sparkled ;  the  firm  lines  about  his  mouth  relaxed ;  the 
preaching  instinct  was  paramount  and  urged  him 
on.  With  the  pioneer  as  his  text  and  Dabney  as 
his  congregation,  he  sermonized,  a  thing  of  which 
he  was  seldom  guilty,  for  Father  Clement  lived  his 
religion  instead  of  hawking  it ;  but  this  was  a  grand 
sermon,  a  tremendous  theme — humanity  in  touch 
with  nature, — and  the  Priest  spoke  as  one  knowing 
Nature's  God,  and  Dabney,  listening,  had  to  bite 
his  lip  to  still  its  quiver. 

"The  same  desires,"  said  Father  Clement  in  con- 
clusion, "that  have  blossomed  into  the  pioneer  of 


A  Friendship  is  Formed  45 

our  era  will  always  dwell  in  the  human  heart.  It  is 
the  unsatisfied  longing  for  something  different — the 
cry  of  the  spirit  for  that  better  country  that  lies 
beyond."  With  a  deep-drawn  sigh  he  stopped,  for 
the  mist  had  risen  to  his  eyes,  and  he  spoke  as  one 
who  views  the  future  from  the  vantage  ground  of 
a  lofty  life.  His  listener  sighed  also,  for  being 
younger  he  had  not  ascended  above  the  clouds  of 
his  past  and  the  way  ahead  seemed  hard  and  narrow 
and  lonely ;  but  he  did  not  give  vent  to  his  feelings, 
for  fear  of  the  Priest's  sympathy,  as  only  the  weak 
desire  to  be  coddled. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  MUSIC  OF  GUITAR 

When  Charles  Dabney  left  Virginia  for  Texas, 
"a  wild  country  teeming  with  buffalo  and  Indian" 
would  have  been  the  most  definite  description  he 
could  have  given  of  his  destination.  This  his  imagi- 
nation had  pictured,  but  never  had  he  conceived 
any  idea  of  the  Spanish  civilization  to  which  he  was 
journeying,  differing  so  materially  from  the  life  in 
the  States.  All  about  him  seemed  strange  and  un- 
real, and  the  Virginian  was  often  tempted  to  stretch 
forth  his  hand  to  see  if  this  new  world  were  really 
tangible  and  not  the  imagery  of  a  fevered  dream. 

Thanks  to  a  vigorous  constitution  and  the  Priest's 
care,  Dabney  was  now  able  to  go  wherever  he  chose. 
Father  Clement  frequently  accompanied  him  and 
the  Virginian  felt  his  friendship  a  compliment. 

One  evening,  as  the  two  halted  to  watch  the  danc- 
ing on  the  Plaza  de  las  Islas,  a  Mexican  beauty, 
with  the  coquetry  of  her  race,  snapped  her  castanet 
in  Dabney' s  face  as  she  invited  him  to  step  the 
cachuca  with  her.  He  smiled,  shook  his  head,  and 
turning  to  the  Priest,  inquired  her  name.  Father 
Clement  was  laughing. 

"I  do  not  know,  but  be  who  she  may,  you  have 
offended  her — I  fancy  her  invitation  was  the  result 


The  Music  of  Guitar  47 

of  a  wager.  Tiensl  with  your  three  legs  you  would 
cut  quite  a  figure !"  And  the  Priest,  now  shaking 
with  mirth,  tapped  the  cane  that  Dabney  was  still 
obliged  to  use  when  walking. 

As  they  sauntered  off  the  Virginian  said : 

"Monsieur  le  cure,"  for  thus  he  always  addressed 
the  Priest,  "what  do  you  think  of  women  ?" 

"I  have  thought  very  seldom  of  them,"  answered 
the  Jesuit,  "for  wars  not  women  occupied  my  youth 
— and  when  a  man  grows  old  he  desires  peace." 
Whereat  the  celibate  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
laughed  to  himself  a  low,  amused  laugh,  then  having 
indulged  his  humor,  continued : 

"The  generalization  is  harmless,  the  individuals — 
well,  there  are  different  types,  worldlings  like  Cleo- 
patra and  Pompadour  and  saints  such  as  Esther  and 
Joan  of  Arc.  They  are  pleasant  to  reflect  upon,  but 
like  dreams  of  empire,  hard  work  to  win." 

Father  Clement  sighed  as  he  finished,  for  at  that 
moment  his  eyes  fell  upon  Josefa,  who  was  seated 
in  the  arcade  of  Don  Ramon's  adobe,  thrumming 
her  guitar. 

Seeing  them,  she  arose  quickly  and  came  to  meet 
them,  welcoming  her  godfather  with  a  kiss,  and 
greeting  Dabney  in  a  shy  though  cordial  way. 

Soon  the  evening  meal  was  served;  there  was  a 
carafe  of  mescal,  hot  tamales,  a  dish  of  frijoles,  and 
a  large  bowl  steaming  with  chili-con-carne,  besides  a 
pot  of  black  coffee  and  a  bota  of  white  wine. 

The  aroma  from  these  Mexican  dishes  appealed 
to  the  Virginian's  sense  of  smell  stronger  than 
the  food  did  to  his  taste,  though  his  appetite  was 
hearty  and  he  was  not  an  epicurean,  for  it  was  not 


48  The  Grito 

hard  to  relish  what  was  set  before  him  when  Josefa's 
presence  graced  the  board. 

Don  Ramon's  manner  to  his  visitors  was  that  of  a 
grandee.  He  did  not  like  either  of  them,  for  intui- 
tively he  felt  them  his  superiors  and  the  knowledge 
made  him  jealous.  But  he  did  not  show  it,  for 
Spanish-Mexican  that  he  was,  the  veneer  of  polite- 
ness was  sufficiently  thick  to  cover  the  surliness  fre- 
quently felt.  He  proffered  Dabney  his  jeweled 
snuff-box  when  he  would  preferably  have  given  him 
his  knife,  for  he  was  obnoxious  to  him — being  an 
Americano,  that  was  enough. 

The  respect  accorded  Father  Clement  was  due  not 
so  much  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a  priest  as  that 
Ramon  Urrea  was  dominated  by  realizing  the  mettle 
of  the  man.  This  tacit  truth  Dabney  soon  perceived 
and  the  knowledge  made  him  watchful.  It  hap- 
pened that  whenever  the  Spaniard  found  the  Vir- 
ginian at  his  adobe  the  Priest  was  there  also,  to 
engage  his  attention  by  discussing  the  affairs  in 
Bexar  and  other  troublous  questions  of  those  turbu- 
lent days.  That  these  conversations  ended  good- 
humoredly  was  due  to  the  Frenchman's  wit  and  his 
power  to  keep  a  clear  head.  Their  whisperings, 
nevertheless,  came  to  the  Virginian's  ear  like  mut- 
tering of  volcanic  action,  convincing  him  that  be- 
neath the  exterior  of  San  Antonio  there  was  lava 
of  hard  feeling  and  molten  hatred  toward  the  Ameri- 
cans, likely  to  burst  forth  at  any  time. 

Ramon  Urrea,  engrossed  as  he  was  with  affairs 
of  state,  never  suspected  the  probability  of  his  niece 
giving  her  affections  to  one  of  the  despised  stran- 
gers, one  of  the  heretic  gringos.  His  duties  keeping 


The  Music  of  Guitar  49 

him  busy,  he  had  little  idea  how  much  of  his  time 
Dabney  spent  with  Jose  fa,  for  had  he  known,  the 
Virginian's  visits  would  certainly  have  been  pro- 
hibited. 

As  for  Father  Clement — well,  possibly  his  autumn 
feelings  made  him  forgetful  of  the  spring-time  of 
his  heart.  Besides,  the  Jesuit  had  made  it  a  rule 
in  life  never  to  meddle  unless  thereby  good  was  to 
result. 

Josefa,  knowing  Father  Clement  as  she  did,  could 
easily  see  how  the  stranger  had  grown  in  his  regard ; 
but  she  could  not  have  defined  the  magnetism  at- 
tracting them  any  more  than  she  could  have  ex- 
plained the  affinity  of  souls.  It  simply  seemed  nat- 
ural to  her  that  it  was  so.  In  that  dim,  half-awakened 
consciousness  of  womanhood,  the  sefiorita  began 
vaguely  to  realize  the  power  of  Dabney's  presence; 
and  with  it  came  a  greater  knowledge  of  the  loveli- 
ness of  life,  proportionately  as  this  overwhelming 
force  stirred  her  inmost  soul.  Dreams  of  happiness, 
hope  and  love  spread  their  wings,  fluttering  about 
her  heart,  while  her  being  thrilled  in  unison  to  the 
music  of  their  meaning. 

The  rapturous  blushes  in  her  cheeks  might  have 
warned  Dabney  of  her  ripening  affection,  but  he 
little  dreamed  that,  to  herself,  Josefa  already  called 
him  "Carlos"  and  that  his  most  trivial  sayings  were 
cherished  by  the  sefiorita;  for,  accustomed  as  the 
Virginian  was  to  that  shadowy  form  of  chivalry 
which  casts  compliments  to  women,  it  came  natural 
to  him  to  make  pretty  speeches.  He  little  ralized 
conditions  of  society  in  that  colony  of  Latin  blood 
interpreted  as  serious  what  by  him  were  regarded 


50  The  Qrito 

as  meaningless  nothings,  mere  sap  from  the  tongue 
of  a  cavalier  scion. 

So  the  custom  came  for  Dabney  to  spend  his  even- 
ings with  her,  when  Josefa,  playing  on  her  guitar, 
would  sing  him  love  songs.  Her  music  strangely 
soothed  the  man,  as  if  exorcising  a  spirit  in  his 
breast.  Was  it  the  spirit  that  hallowed  the  niche 
impenetrable  to  the  Jesuit's  scrutiny?  Be  that  as 
it  may,  these  strains  of  love,  vibrating  with  unutter- 
able fascination,  took  Dabney  from  out  of  the  shad- 
owy past  that  to  him  was  still  a  living  issue,  for  the 
secret  of  his  life  oppressed  him  with  the  bitterness 
of  unavailing  regret. 

The  harmony  of  these  Spanish  songs,  every  ca- 
dence of  which  trembled  with  passion,  enraptured 
him  like  the  wild  beast  following  Orpheus,  until  the 
discordant  world  of  life,  light  and  day  seemed 
undesirable;  yet  when  their  echoes  dying  away  left 
the  man  oppressed  with  sadness  rather  than  peace, 
the  presence  of  Josefa  proved  diverting  and  with 
diversion  came  comfort. 

Josefa' s  feelings  for  the  Virginian  differed  greatly 
from  his  feelings  toward  her.  She  was  so  terribly 
in  earnest,  so  trusting,  so  like  the  child  of  the  south- 
ern sun — and  he,  somehow,  was  different.  The 
blood  in  his  veins  did  not  course  with  as  rapid  pulsa- 
tions as  it  did  with  the  senorita.  Hers  was  a  gush- 
ing torrent ;  his  resembled  more  a  broad,  deep  river, 
a  river  frozen  over  with  ice — a  river  that  it  would  be 
hard  to  change  from  the  channel  of  the  past.  Josefa, 
though,  singing  to  her  guitar,  thought  only  of  the 
music  of  the  present.  She  was  young,  she  was 
pretty,  she  was  lovable;  and  combined  with  the 


The  Music  of  Guitar  51 

charm  of  her  naturalness  was  an  air  of  thorough 
breeding,  inherited  from  her  Canary  Island  ancestry. 

Like  others  whose  companions  have  been  mostly 
ideals,  the  sefiorita's  opinions  of  life,  though  some- 
what shaped  by  Father  Clement's  influence,  were 
largely  tinted  with  the  colorings  of  her  own  imagi- 
nation. 

Dabney  enjoyed  drawing  her  out;  for  looking 
through  her  lenses  showed  the  stale  old  world  in  a 
strange  new  light.  He  often  wondered  if  the  girl 
were  satisfied,  living  as  she  did  apart  from  the  social 
life  of  San  Antonio.  He  determined  to  find  out.  They 
were  seated  in  the  patio,  now  a  bower  of  beauty, 
with  rose  vines  climbing  the  yellow  walls  of  the 
adobe,  and  the  shade  of  palm  and  pomegranate  mak- 
ing the  spot  sweet  and  cool.  Taking  the  senorita's 
hand  in  his — he  had  never  held  it  before,  and  she 
blushed  conspicuously — he  asked : 

"If  it  were  your  choice,  which  would  you  rather 
be,  Josefa,  a  lovely  rose  twined  with  others  in  a  gar- 
land to  ornament  a  fiesta,  or  a  pure  white  jessamine, 
wasting  its  perfume  while  fading  unplucked  and  un- 
appreciated? Think  now,  which  would  you  rather 
be?" 

For  a  moment  the  girl  paused  before  answering : 

"The  rose  would  not  last  long  before  being 
trampled  in  the  dust,  while  the  jessamine  would 
turn  ugly  with  age.  Then  with  her  big  black  eyes 
looking  straight  into  his,  she  added:  "Neither  of 
their  fates  would  I  choose.  I  would  prefer  being 
like  the  lovely  lily  that  is  placed  at  the  feet  of  Our 
Lady." 


52  The  Grito 

"The  Blessed  Mother  herself  put  that  wish  into 
thy  heart,  my  child,"  supplemented  Father  Clement, 
who  unobserved  had  entered.  The  Priest  then  gave 
the  Virginian  a  scrutinizing  glance  that  seemed  a 
challenge.  Dabney  instantly  sprang  to  his  feet,  his 
shoulders  and  head  thrown  back,  a  slight  flush 
mantling  his  cheeks.  It  was  as  if  he  were  facing  a 
judge  and  must  explain  himself. 

A  low  sigh  escaped  the  Jesuit  as  he  said : 

"Monsieur  Daubigney,  I  will  walk  home  with 
you ;  we  can  talk  on  the  way." 

When  the  street  was  reached  for  a  while  neither 
spoke — it  was  as  if  a  wall  had  suddenly  risen  be- 
tween them ;  then  Father  Clement  began : 

"What  I  wish  to  say  is  this — the  first  love  of  a 
young  heart  is  like  the  blush  on  a  peach,  the  perfume 
of  a  violet.  Once  destroyed  it  can  never  be  restored. 
I  have  cared  for  you  in  sickness,  I  have  treated  you 
as  a  son ;  I  do  not  believe  you  capable  of  rewarding 
unkindly  an  old  man,  whose  only  wish  in  life  is  the 
soul's  welfare  and  earthly  happiness  of  his  godchild. 
She  is  a  tender  plant,  a  prairie  flower ;  and  she  is — 
my  all,"  concluded  the  Priest,  with  a  sob.  Looking 
Dabney  full  in  the  eye,  he  added,  "I  have  trusted  you 
in  the  past,  can  I  trust  you  in  the  future  ?" 

"You  shall  trust  me  always/'  fervently  the  Vir- 
ginian replied,  returning  the  Priest's  gaze  with  a 
steadiness  that  left  no  doubt  of  sincerity  in  the  mind 
of  the  Jesuit. 

And  so  it  followed  that  though  Dabney  had 
reached  the  Dickinson  cabin,  where  he  still  lodged,  he 
passed  it  and  the  two  went  on  until  the  Military 
Plaza  came  in  view.  There  seated  on  the  sward,  in 


The  Music  of  Guitar  53 

the  quietude  of  the  night,  while  the  stars  twinkled 
above,  Charles  Dabney  unbosomed  his  heart  to  the 
Priest.  He  told  why  he  had  left  Virginia,  why  he 
had  sought  the  wilderness.  He  spoke  carelessly, 
with  no  sign  of  the  struggle  it  cost  him  to  tell  it — but 
Father  Clement  knew,  he  understood.  And  he  gave 
Daubigney  his  hand  in  a  clasp  that  meant  more  than 
words,  for  it  held  in  it  the  assurance  that  this  confi- 
dence would  be  regarded  as  sacred  as  a  confession. 


CHAPTER  V 

BREAKERS  AHEAD 

One  morning  as  Father  Clement  knelt  before  the 
wooden  cross  he  had  set  up  in  his  sanctum,  having 
just  finished  his  chaplet  and  being  about  to  rise,  his 
door  unexpectedly  opened  and  all  breathless  Josefa 
entered. 

The  flush  on  her  cheek  was  due  to  excitement 
rather  than  rapid  walking,  and  in  her  eyes  glistened 
unshed  tears. 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?"  asked  the  Priest, 
rising  to  greet  her. 

"Oh,  everything!"  answered  the  girl  as  she  sank 
on  a  mat  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  god- 
father, leaning  over,  gently  patted  her  head  while 
awaiting  further  enlightenment. 

Josefa,  thus  encouraged,  began : 

"You  see,  ever  since  dear  old  Chona's  death  I  have 
felt  lonely,  for  nurse  Chona  used  to  comfort  me  when 
I  was  distressed  and  always  took  my  side  in  every- 
thing. I  miss  her  to  tell  me  what  is  right." 

"My  chiquita,  my  little  one,  thy  conscience  could 
tell  thee  the  right  if  thou  wouldst  hearken." 

"But,"  interrupted  the  senorita,  "conscience  may 
be  lots  of  company  for  you  priests,  but  I  would 
rather  have  the  counsel  of  something  living." 


Breakers  Ahead  55 

"If  thy  conscience  is  not  alive,  forsooth  you  are  in 
trouble  and  it  is  high  time  you  were  consulting  a 
priest." 

"I  do  not  need  an  oracle,  but  a  friend,"  retorted 
the  girl,  and  seeing  how  genuine  was  her  grief, 
Father  Clement  bade  her  tell  him  all. 

"Well,"  began  Josefa,  "last  evening  when  Uncle 
Ramon  came  home  he  sent  for  me  and,  and" — sobs 
choked  her  voice — "told  me  I  had  to  marry." 

"Marry !"  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  as  if  he  could 
scarcely  believe  his  ears. 

"Yes,  marry." 

"Pray,  whom?"  and  there  was  an  irate  intonation 
in  the  Jesuit's  voice. 

"Why,  his  old  friend  Castrillo,  that's  old  enough 
to  be  my  father,"  blurted  out  the  girl,  and  a  fresh 
attack  of  weeping  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  say 
more. 

The  Priest  sat  silent.  A  deep  rush  of  blood  tinted 
his  hollow  cheeks,  as  if  congestion  had  taken  place. 
His  thin  lips  were  compressed  until  only  a  purple 
line  marked  his  mouth.  His  foot  nervously  tapped 
the  floor  but  he  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  In- 
wardly a  battle  raged  between  the  spirit  and  the 
flesh,  making  him  long  to  seize  Don  Ramon  and 
throttle  him  as  he  deserved,  but  prudence  and  long 
self-restraint  prevented. 

Josefa,  between  her  sobs,  continued : 

"I  told  him  that  I  would  not,  that  I  would  die 
first;  that  I  hated  Don  Castrillo  and  would  murder 
him  sooner  than  marry  him." 

She  looked  at  that  moment  capable  of  anything. 
This  was  not  the  Josefa  Father  Clement  had  been 


56  The  Grito 

accustomed  to,  but  a  new  woman  who  could  hate  as 
well  as  love. 

"And  he  laughed  me  to  scorn.  Tretty  talk/  he 
said,  'to  hear  from  one  under  my  roof/  His  wish, 
he  declared,  was  to  be  my  law,  as  he  stood  in  the 
place  of  my  father,  and  that  if  I  did  not  obey  him 
he  would  tell  the  padre  of  San  Fernando  and  see  that 
I  entered  the  convent.'* 

The  little  girl's  grief  overwhelming  her  again, 
she  ceased  to  speak,  while  her  frame  shook  with 
emotion. 

To  contain  himself,  Father  Clement  was  now 
pacing  the  floor.  Halting  where  his  godchild  sat, 
he  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  brow,  asking : 

"Was  that  all  Ramon  Urrea  said?" 

"O !  no.  He  says  such  a  course  had  always  been 
intended,  and  he  did  not  mean  for  an  upstart  of  a 
girl  to  thwart  his  plans,  he  who  was  a  soldier.  I 
told  him  you  would  not  allow  it,  at  which  his  rage 
became  great  and  his  language  most  abusive,  too 
foul  for  me  to  sully  my  tongue  by  repeating.  He 
spurned  you,  Padre,  saying  you  were  not  of  our 
race,  but  a  vagabond  friar,  with  no  right  to  meddle 
in  the  family  affairs  of  the  house  of  Urrea ;  adding, 
moreover,  that  my  father  was  in  his  dotage  when 
he  gave  you  shelter  and  selected  you  as  my  sponsor 
in  baptism. 

He  vowed  soon  you  and  your  heretic  friend 
Senor  Daubigney,  as  well  as  all  other  foreigners, 
would  have  no  room  save  a  Mexican  dungeon  in 
which  to  air  your  thoughts;  while  he  and  Castrillo 
would  be  powers  in  the  land. 


Breakers  Ahead  57 

Now,  Father  Clement,  I  can  see  how  he  might 
contrive  to  place  me  in  a  nunnery,  but  I  do  not  see 
how  he  could  put  you  all  in  a  dungeon,  and  I  told 
him  so.  Whereat  he  jerked  his  sword  from  the 
scabbard,  brandishing  it  above  his  head,  saying, 
'Wait  and  see !'  Quite  terrified,  I  made  haste  to  bed, 
but  I  cried  all  night  and  prayed  for  the  morning  to 
dawn  so  I  could  come  and  tell  you  all/ 

"My  child,"  spoke  the  Priest,  "Don  Ramon  was 
most  probably  deep  in  his  cups,  else  he  would  not 
have  spoken  as  he  did." 

"He  was  not  more  intoxicated  than  usual,"  replied 
Josefa,  adding:  "I  never  knew  before  that  he  dis- 
liked you,  though  I  have  suspected  that  he  hated 
Senor  Daubigney — and  why,  I  can't  see." 

"Which  is  not  strange,  my  chiquita,  my  little  one, 
since  love  is  blind,  'tis  said."  He  laughed  a  little, 
then  changing  to  a  serious  tone  went  on : 

"What  makes  you  think  Don  Ramon  dislikes 
Daubigney?" 

"He  is  an  Americano,  and  ever  since  that  night 
when  old  Ben  Milam  surprised  the  presidio  and  the 
Americanos  got  possession  of  the  Alamo,  he  has 
hated  them  one  and  all." 

Then  bursting  into  tears,  Josefa  wailed : 

"Oh !  if  dear  nurse  Chona  were  only  living,  dear 
old  Chona  who  loved  me  like  a  mother." 

"Perhaps,"  hinted  Father  Clement,  "as  time  goes 
on  you  may  become  equally  attached  to  Nina.  Isn't 
she  satisfactory  as  a  maid  ?" 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"Why?" 


58  The  Grito 

"Because  she  would  rather  please  Don  Ramon 
than  me;  and  late  of  evenings,  when  Chona  would 
have  been  asleep  or  telling  her  beads,  Nina  sits  up 
awaiting  his  return,  to  see  if  she  can  serve  him." 

An  inexplicable  but  intelligent  smile  came  over  the 
Jesuit' s  face,  and  though  he  said  nothing,  he  nodded 
his  head  as  if  he  were  beginning  to  understand. 
But  Josefa  did  not  interpret  his  silence  aright. 

"You  need  not  shake  your  head  as  if  I  did  not 
know  of  what  I  was  speaking,  for  I  daily  see  them. 
She  is  always  cooking  the  dishes  he  likes,  and  while 
he  eats  she  stands  by  and  fans  him  when  I  do  not 
believe  a  fly  is  within  forty  miles." 

"Potiphar's  wife,"  murmured  the  Frenchman. 

"No,  that  is  not  her  husband's  name.  It  is  Ped- 
rillo  and  he  is  a  picador,  and  seldom  about.  I  asked 
her  one  day  if  she  did  not  miss  him,  and  she  said 
it  was  right  for  him  to  attend  to  his  business,  and 
that  she  was  blessed  in  having  a  good  home  with 
a  kind  master." 

"Hush,  Josefa;  it  is  not  well  to  encourage  ser- 
vants to  talk  and  never  wise  to  repeat  their  gossip. 
In  reference  to  all  that  you  have  been  telling  me,  I 
think  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  return  to 
your  home,  but  say  nothing  of  your  morning's  visit. 
If  Don  Ramon  ever  repeats  his  avowal  to  marry  you 
to  Juan  Castrillo,  tell  him  from  me,  'beware;'  and 
now,  adios,  my  chiquita" 

Standing  in  the  doorway  the  Priest  watched  until 
the  senorita's  figure  became  but  a  dot  in  the  per- 
spective of  the  old  narrow  street.  No  sooner  was 
he  left  alone  than  his  manner  changed,  for  Father 


Breakers  Ahead  59 

Clement  loved  Josefa  with  an  unfathomable  ten- 
derness. 

"I  would  as  soon  see  her  at  the  mercy  of  a  wild 
beast  as  wedded  to  a  man  she  did  not  love,  for  happi- 
ness is  a  stranger  to  a  hearthstone  where  the  fire  is 
kindled  with  a  substitute  for  love.  The  flames  of  a 
passion  like  Castrillo's  would  stifle  Josefa  like  fumes 
from  charcoal,  for  his  heart  is  as  black  as  the  gates 
of  hell !"  And  a  denunciation  strangely  synonymous 
to  an  oath  sounded  on  the  air  as  the  Priest  turned 
and  entered  his  house. 

He  sank  on  a  settle  just  inside  the  door ;  his  head 
drooped,  an  expression  of  abject  weariness  stole  over 
his  face,  making  him  look  years  older.  His  attitude 
was  one  of  loneliness,  of  desolation.  His  tone  as 
well  as  his  bearing  had  undergone  a  great  change,  for 
as  he  talked  to  himself  his  voice  was  soft  and  almost 
plaintive.  "And  my  little  girl  is  really  a  woman,"  he 
was  saying.  "It  is  hard  to  realize  Josefa  is  grown ! 
Mon  Dieu!  how  I  have  loved  her — and  now  the 
time  has  come  for  another's  love  to  be  more  to  her 
than  Pere  Clement's.  It  is  hard,  hard,  hard !  I  was 
not  prepared  for  it !  She  has  been  so  much  to  me — a 
charge  from  the  dead,  sacred  and  precious;  a  babe 
alone  in  the  world  with  no  one  to  guide  her  feet 
aright,  those  little  feet  that  I  taught  to  walk ;  but," 
and  the  old  fire  shone  in  his  eyes  and  his  voice  rang 
decisive  and  strong,  "I  shall  never  give  her  to  any 
but  a  good  man,  to  one  that  would  love  and  cherish 
her,  to  one  that  is  noble  and  true,  like  Monsieur — " 
The  Priest  stopped  short  and  clapped  his  hand  over 
his  mouth,  for  Daubigney  stood  on  the  threshold, 


CHAPTER  VI 

SETTLING  A   SCORE 

The  clear  chimes  from  the  belfry  of  San  Fernando 
announced  the  midnight  hour  and  the  sentinel's  cry, 
"All's  well!"  echoed  through  the  silent  city  as  the 
moon,  like  a  belated  chaperone  focusing  a  lorgnette, 
illumined  the  courtyard  of  Don  Ramon's  adobe. 

There  two  men  confronted  each  other.  Close  to  a 
pomegranate— from  which  a  mocking-bird  a  few 
seconds  before,  as  if  cognizant  that  love  was  being 
plighted,  had  warbled  a  melody  soft,  blissful  and 
more  rapturous  than  Mendelssohn's  wedding  strains 
— stood  a  woman. 

She  was  a  magnificent  creature,  tall  and  well 
rounded,  with  that  voluptuous  beauty  frequently  met 
with  among  the  commoner  classes  of  all  nationalities 
— an  animal  beauty  rather  than  spiritual.  An  enagua 
or  short  skirt  of  red  displayed  to  advantage  her  bare 
feet  and  well-shapen  ankles.  A  thin  white  bodice, 
carelessly  caught  over  her  breast  and  girded  at  the 
waist  with  a  belt  of  colored  beads,  revealed  the  sym- 
metry of  her  figure.  Her  lustrous  dark  eyes  were 
alight  with  fear,  her  rosy  lips  trembled  with  nervous- 
ness as  she  listened  to  the  words  of  Pedrillo,  her 
husband.  The  light  of  murder  lit  up  his  face  with  a 
savagery  that  sent  terror  not  only  to  Nina's  heart 


Settling  a  Score  61 

but  to  Don  Ramon's  as  well,  realizing  as  he  did  his 
helplessness  before  this  armed  man,  this  picador, 
whose  courage  could  cope  with  maddened  beast. 

"I  will  not  kill  you,  though  you  deserve  it,"  Ped- 
rillo  was  saying,  "for  I  owe  debts,  heavy  debts,  that 
must  be  paid,  else  I  become  a  bondservant,  a  peon. 
So,  caramba!  if  Don  Ramon  will  furnish  the  gold 
he  can  have  the  woman,  spawn  of  vice  that  she  is, 
and  we  will  call  it  even ;  only" — and  a  laugh,  terrible 
to  hear,  broke  from  his  lips — "only,"  he  repeated, 
"the  Don  gets  the  worse  of  the  bargain.  This  is  the 
condition,  the  sole  condition,  under  which  I  spare 
your  lives,  for  devils  like  you  have  no  right  to  live." 

Nina  shivered.  Don  Ramon,  who  a  few  minutes 
before,  intoxicated  with  delight,  had  felt  like  a  man 
drunk  with  bad  wine,  now  stood  crestfallen,  great 
drops  of  icy  sweat  beetling  his  brow,  his  snakey  eyes 
shining  like  little  black  beads  in  his  bloated  face  as 
his  glance  wandered  furtively  from  the  woman  to 
her  husband.  Hardly  had  Pedrillo  finished  speaking 
before  he  gasped : 

"Agreed  in  el  nombre  de  Dios,  in  the  name  of 
God." 

"Then,"  said  the  picador,  "come  in  your  adobe 
and  open  your  chest,  for  there  is  no  time  like  the 
present  to  make  promises  good." 

And  Ramon  Urrea  quakingly  obeyed,  feeling 
much  as  did  Faust  when  for  Marguerite  he  bar- 
gained his  soul  to  Mephistopheles. 

The  wind  meanwhile  had  risen,  rustling  the  leaves 
like  gossiping  tongues  busy  with  a  new  secret;  and 
the  moon,  the  tired  old  moon,  that  has  kept  an  eye 
over  creation  since  the  days  of  Eve,  snuggled  in  a 


62  The  Grito 

thick  black  cloud  for  a  little  rest.  No  sooner  was 
the  last  peso  of  the  stipulated  sum  doled  out  than 
Pedrillo  left  the  house.  Scarce  had  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  died  away  than  a  loud  knock  was  heard 
at  the  door. 

"What  fool  is  abroad  so  late  on  a  night  like  this?" 
asked  Don  Ramon,  thoroughly  ill-humored  with  the 
world  at  large. 

"Only  Father  Clement  seeking  shelter  from  the 
storm/'  came  the  placid  reply. 

As  the  Priest  entered  a  gust  of  wind  and  sand 
blew  in  so  violently  that  it  was  not  strange  the  candle 
sputtered  and  went  out,  though  Nina  passed  it  as  she 
glided  stealthily  behind  a  curtain  and  disappeared. 

"Alone,  Don  Ramon  ?"  commented  the  Jesuit.  "I 
thought  I  heard  voices ;  but  perhaps  it  was  only  the 
wind." 

Paying  no  heed  to  the  uncordial  reception,  Father 
Clement  laid  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  table,  thereby 
showing  his  intention  to  remain.  Eyeing  the  Span- 
iard intently,  as  he  made  a  light,  the  Frenchman 
said: 

"A  mission  of  mercy  brought  me  out  tonight — 
a  poor  ignorant  fellow,  far  from  the  folds  of  the 
Church,  has  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife. 
Fears  lest  the  frailty  of  his  human  nature  could  not 
bear  this  awful  trial,  and  perhaps  might  commit 
wrong,  made  me  anxious  to  be  near  him.  He  was 
in  a  terrible  way — his  heart  was  embittered,  his  feel- 
ings overstrung.  The  blow  has  blighted  what  little 
conception  of  right  his  poor  warped  conscience  had, 
and  from  my  heart  I  pity  him,  for  it  is  a  terrible  loss 


Settling  a  Score  63 

to  lose  a  wife,  but  not  irreparable,  like  for  instance — 
losing  faith  in  woman/ 

As  no  comment  was  vouchsafed,  the  Jesuit  con- 
tinued : 

"This  is  a  bad  night  and  few  people,  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say,  seemed  abroad.  I  only  passed  one  man 
in  crossing  the  Plaza  de  las  Islas,  and  that  was  Ped- 
rillo,  the  picador/ 

Don  Ramon  still  sat  silent.  A  scowl  was  gather- 
ing between  his  heavy  brows.  His  disquietude  did 
not  escape  Father  Clement,  who  talked  on : 

"Pedrillo  was  jingling  a  bag  of  money,  so  I  cau- 
tioned him  to  beware  of  ladrones ;  but  he  muttered 
something  rather  philosophical,  though  a  little  irrele- 
vant, about  wealth's  not  being  the  greatest  treasure 
one  could  possess,  although  it  could  buy  one's  way 
out  of  purgatory,  a  sophistry  I  saw  fit  to  correct, 
so  I  said,  'Money  can  not  buy  a  passport  to  heaven, 
though  by  it  one  often  enters  hell/  But  to  return 
to  what  I  was  saying.  It  seems  a  man  owed  his  life 
to  Pedrillo,  and  gave  him  the  gold  as  a  compensa- 
tion. A  great  necessity,  doubtless,  compelled  the 
picador  to  seek  the  settlement  of  a  claim  like  this  or 
he  would  not  have  been  out  so  late.  Perhaps  through 
Nina  you  have  already  heard  about  it,  and  as  the 
night  wanes  and  I  see  you  are  weary,  we  had  best 
try  to  catch  a  wink  of  sleep. 

"But  before  we  commend  our  consciences  to  slum- 
ber you  will  indulge  me  in  my  usual  habit  of  reading 
a  few  words  from  Holy  Writ,  just  a  little  tonic  to 
make  rest  sweet  and  dreams  less  fitful/' 


64  The  Grito 

Taking  from  his  cassock  a  little  Bible,  the  Priest 
moved  the  candle  to  aid  him  in  seeing  not  only  his 
breviary  but  the  Don's  face ;  then  he  read : 

"  'And  it  came  to  pass  in  an  evening,  that  David 
arose  from  his  bed,  and  walked  upon  the  roof  of  the 
king's  house;  and  from  the  roof  he  saw  a  woman — 
and  the  woman  was  very  beautiful  to  look  upon. 

"  And  David  sent  and  inquired  after  the  woman. 
And  one  said,  Is  not  this  Bathsheba,  the  wife  of 
Uriah  the  Hittite  ?  And  David  sent  messengers  and 
took  her.  But  the  thing  that  David  did  displeased 
the  Lord. 

"  'And  the  Lord  sent  Nathan  unto  David.  And  he 
came  unto  him,  and  said  unto  him,  There  were  two 
men  in  one  city ;  the  one  rich  and  the  other  poor. 

"  'And  the  rich  man  had  exceedingly  many  flocks 
and  herds.  But  the  poor  man  had  nothing,  save 
one  little  ewe  lamb — And  there  came  a  traveler  unto 
-the  rich  man  and  he  spared  to  take  of  his  own  flock 
and  of  his  own  herd,  to  dress  for  the  wayfaring  man 
that  was  come  unto  him ;  but  he  took  the  poor  man's 
lamb,  and  dressed  it  for  the  man  that  was  come  unto 
him. 

"  'And  Nathan  said  to  David'  (here  Father  Clem- 
ent, lifting  his  eyes  from  the  page,  looked  straight 
into  Don  Ramon's  face,  and  repeated  slowly,  delib- 
erately) 'And  Nathan  said  to  David,  Thou  art  the 


man.' " 


The  Spaniard  was  biting  his  moustache.  Rage 
coagulated  his  blood  so  that  his  face  looked  mottled. 
The  lash  of  the  Jesuit  had  touched  a  sore  spot, 
which  he  chafed  to  resent,  but  realized  that  thereby 
he  would  be  making  a  confession ;  so  he  removed  his 


Settling  a  Score  65 

hand  from  his  knife-haft,  completely  cowed  by 
Father  Clement's  calm,  unflinching,  spiritual  cour- 
age. 

And  the  Priest,  with  no  word  of  comment,  bade 
the  Don  good-night. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HER  CONFIDENCE 

The  westering  sun  was  nearing  its  journey's  end 
as  Josefa  bade  Mother  Dickinson  good-by  and 
started  home  across  the  plaza.  Fearing  lest  some- 
thing befall  her,  the  girl  was  rather  inclined  to  run, 
for  she  could  hear  footsteps  quickly  following,  and 
a  glance  backward  showed  the  figure  of  a  man  rap- 
idly drawing  near. 

Her  relief  was  great  when  the  welcome  voice  of 
Charles  Dabney  sounded  on  the  air. 

" Buenos  tardes!"  he  called,  and  as  he  placed  him- 
self at  her  side  he  threw  away  his  half-finished  cigar- 
etto,  saying : 

"Senorita,  I  do  believe  you  were  running  from 
me." 

"I  was,"  gasped  Josefa;  coyly  adding,  "because, 
well,  because  I  did  not  recognize  you." 

Dabney  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  looking  so 
lovely. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "to  have  frightened  you; 
so  if  you  are  homeward  bound  I  shall  try  to  make 
up  for  it  by  taking  care  of  you  the  rest  of  the  way ; 
that  is,  of  course,  with  your  permission  ?" 

Her  smile  was  grateful  as  she  said : 


Her  Confidence  67 

! 

"Thank  you,  for  it  is  growing  dusk  and  I  never 
should  stay  out  so  late  alone;  but  Mother  Dickin- 
son and  I  had  so  much  to  talk  of  that  I  did  not  realize 
how  the  hours  passed."  She  did  not  tell  that  he 
had  been  the  subject  of  their  conversation.  "Nina 
should  have  come  for  me,"  she  added  petulantly. 

"Nina,"  Dabney  repeated;  "she  is  your  new  ser- 
vant, I  believe.  Well,  she  is  far  more  agreeable  to 
look  upon  than  that  old  mestizo,  you  used  to  have." 
His  mind  went  back  to  the  evening  on  the  plaza 
when  Nina,  then  unknown,  had  snapped  her  casta- 
net  in  his  face,  begging  him  to  dance  with  her. 

"Nina  may  be  pretty,"  agreed  Josefa,  "but  then 
nurse  Chona  loved  me,  so  I  never  thought  her 
homely." 

"Do  you  invest  people  who  admire  you  with  the 
attractions  they  may  lack  ?"  Dabney  asked  mischiev- 
iously. 

"Not  always." 

"For  if  you  did,"  he  continued,  "proportionately 
you  might  exaggerate  me  into  quite  an  Adonis/ 

The  girl  flushed  crimson  as  she  replied : 

"You  do  not  need  my  clemency  as  dear  old  Chona 
did,  for,  senor,  you  are  already  handsome." 

She  was  so  truthful  that  to  Dabney,  who  was  skii- 
ful  with  his  tongue,  she  furnished  meagre  sport  in 
parrying  compliments.  Coloring  slightly  he  bit  his 
lip.  That  Josefa  admired  him  the  American  had 
long  since  known.  Had  she  done  so  less,  the  man 
told  his  head  that  he  would  have  found  her  more 
attractive,  for  he  held  to  the  tenet  that  a  blessing 
that  comes  without  effort  lacks  the  witchery  of  sus- 
pense. Josefa' s  white  purity,  however,  her  childish 


68  The  Grito 

frankness,  though  it  at  first  amused,  secretly  flat- 
tered Dabney.  It  touched  the  chivalrous  in  his  na- 
ture and  awoke  a  feeling  for  her  that  he  himself 
could  not  have  defined,  being  as  yet  unaware  of  it. 

"So  Nina  does  not  fill  old  Chona's  place  in  your 
affections,"  was  his  next  remark,  made  solely  for 
the  lack  of  something  better  to  say. 

"No/  replied  Josefa,  "I  think  her  detestable;  but 
then  she  is  not  my  servant,  but  Uncle  Ramon* s, 
and  I  think  him  detestable  too."  And  a  great  sob 
filled  her  voice. 

With  that  good  breeding  that  regards  family  con- 
fidences as  sacred,  Dabney  began  to  feel  embar- 
rassed. He  had  never  before  seen  Josefa  weep  and 
the  sight  of  her  tears  moved  him  strangely.  She 
was  so  young — such  a  child — he  longed  to  kiss  away 
the  tears  trickling  down  her  cheeks,  her  cheeks  that 
were  as  red  as  poppies  and  smooth  as  floss  satin. 
The  girl  was  speaking  again : 

"Oh,  I  almost  hate  Uncle  Ramon — and  I  do  hate 
his  friend  Don  Castrillo!" 

By  including  Castrillo  in  her  disfavor,  Dabney 's 
curiosity  as  well  as  sympathy  was  aroused. 

"Tell  me  why,  little  girl,"  he  said;  "trust  me, 
I  shall  never  betray  your  confidence." 

"Because — because  he  wants  to  marry  me." 

Dabney's  step  halted  and  he  faced  Josefa  as 
though  he  had  received  a  blow  from  some  unseen 
force,  for  this  intelligence  was  as  a  thunderbolt 
from  a  clear  sky.  His  eyes  flashed  and  a  curse  rose 
to  his  lips,  for  he  had  heard  something  of  Castrillo' s 
reputation;  and  then  the  sorrow  of  the  Virginian's 
life  reassailed  him,  and  with  the  old  pain  it  seemed 


Her  Confidence  69 

as  if  a  new  ache  had  come  into  his  life  to  stay.  But 
outwardly  he  quickly  recovered  himself,  and  said : 

"Most  ladies  do  not  feel  that  way  toward  their 
admirers.  When  a  man  wishes  to  marry  a  woman 
it  is  the  highest  compliment  he  can  pay  her." 

"But  I  do  not  love  him  I"  broke  forth  Josefa. 

"Well,  then,  why  disturb  yourself  over  the  matter. 
Dry  your  eyes  and  forget  all  about  it.  Nobody  is 
going  to  make  you  wed  him;  and  it  is  not  likely 
to  seriously  hurt  Castrillo,  for  discarded  lovers  soon 
console  themselves  with  other  fair  faces." 

He  spoke  thus  to  stifle  the  emotion  in  his  own 
breast — the  emotions  that  were  awakened  by  the  pos- 
bility  of  Josefa's  going  out  of  his  life,  for  not  until 
now  had  he  realized  how  dear  the  girl  was  to  him. 
His  last  words  did  not  nettle  the  senorita's  vanity, 
as  had  been  his  intention,  for  she  was  too  troubled 
to  notice  them. 

"Uncle  Ramon  says  though  that  I  have  got  to 
marry  him  and  the  sooner  1  make  up  my  mind 
to  do  it  gracefully,  the  better  it  will  be  for  all  parties. 
He  is  forever  bringing  Don  Castrillo  home  with  him, 
and  then  he  makes  me  sing  for  them  and  tries  to 
tease  me  into  a  good  humor  by  calling  me  a  naughty 
minx ;  yet  when  we  are  alone  with  nobody  but  Nina 
to  hear,  he  calls  me  a  wilful  wench  and  threatens  me 
with  the  convent  if  I  dare  disobey  him." 

"Does  Father  Clement  know  of  this?" 

"Yes,  I  have  told  him." 

"And  does  he  approve  of  a  marriage  between  you 
and  Castrillo  ?"  the  Virginian  asked  incredulously. 

"Oh,  no !  padre  mio  would  not  have  me  marry  any 
one  whom  I  did  not  love,  for  he  says  a  marriage 


70  The  Grito 

without  love  is  the  worst  sort  of  famine."  The  girl 
looked  at  him  as  she  spoke,  with  a  look  that  was 
pitiable  to  see.  It  reminded  him  of  the  look  a 
stricken  deer  might  give  a  hunter,  and  seemed  to  his 
strength  the  appeal  of  helplessness  for  mercy. 

It  was  a  moment  that  was  irresistible,  and  the 
Virginian  forgot  the  self-control  that  usually  mas- 
tered his  actions,  and  almost  without  knowing  what 
was  passing  his  lips  said : 

"Josefa,  do  you  think  you  could  ever  love  me?" 

Turning  toward  him  the  girl  flung  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  giving  him  a  kiss  in  which  was  all 
the  passionate  love  of  her  Spanish  soul,  such  a  kiss 
as  thrilled  every  fibre  of  his  being. 

"O  Carlos!"  her  voice  sunk  to  a  whisper,  "I  do 
love  you,  I  do  love  you!"  And  her  face  was  like 
an  April  day  when  the  clouds  are  dissipated  by  the 
glorious  rays  of  a  noonday  sun.  Her  eyes  gleamed 
into  his  for  a  moment,  then  dropped  bashfully,  as 
her  jet-black  hair  nestled  in  sweet  masses  on  his 
breast. 

Dabney  felt  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  It  was 
enough  for  him  that  he  held  her  so,  that  he  felt  her 
heart  beating  against  his  own.  He  felt  this  was  a 
glimpse  into  Paradise.  Now  he  had  an  incentive 
to  live — to  shield  Josefa ;  to  make  her  happy ;  and  yet 
how  unworthy  was  he  of  such  happiness.  How  pure 
and  sinless  was  her  life  compared  with  his.  Would 
she  love  him  as  she  did  if  she  knew  him  as  he  knew 
himself  ?  The  glorious  promises  of  joy  were  his  for 
the  seeking — and  yet  it  almost  seemed  a  mockery 
from  the  tempter ;  and  so  the  old  sorrow,  the  old  ache, 


Her  Confidence  71 

his  secret,  stirred  in  his  heart,  bringing  him  back  to 
the  reality  of  life's  desert  sands. 

The  night  wind  from  the  prairie,  fragrant  with 
the  perfume  of  myriads  of  flowers,  blew  like  a  soft 
salute..  The  girl  nestled  closer  to  him,  all  a-tremble. 

"And  you,  darling,"  she  ventured,  "you  love  me, 
don't  you  ?  You  kissed  me  as  if  you  did ;  and  you 
Americanos  are  not  like  the  Spanish,  you  would  not 
have  done  it  unless  you  meant  it,  would  you  ?"  Her 
voice  was  tremulous  with  emotion  and  touched  Dab- 
ney  deeply.  He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  and  tilting 
her  chin  with  his  hand,  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  lips 
that  was  long,  loving,  tender  and  reverent. 

"Yes,  little  girl,"  he  whispered,  "I  love  you  better 
than  anything  on  God's  green  earth."  And  Josefa 
did  not  notice  that  accompanying  his  words  was  a 
sigh,  deep,  low  and  long. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  BIT  OF  OLD  SPAIN 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  near  four  o'clock. 

The  wooden  amphitheatre  built  around  the  circus 
ring  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity,  not  a  seat 
was  vacant ;  for  the  entire  population  of  San  Antonio 
was  present  to  witness  the  bull-fight,  the  fiesta-de- 
tor o. 

They  were  all  there,  all  ranks,  sexes  and  ages — a 
heterogeneous  mass  of  humanity  drawn  together  by 
this  promise  of  amusement,  which  has  ever  delighted 
the  offspring  of  old  Spain.  It  is  a  taint  coming 
down  through  the  ages,  for  a  strain  of  barbarism 
underlies  all  civilizations,  inherent  in  that  human 
organism  whose  primeval  law  demanded  an  eye  for 
an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  Suffering  seems  to 
assuage  this  longing,  which  crops  out  wherever  the 
present  clashes  with  the  past. 

The  populace  of  San  Antonio,  merry,  pleasure- 
loving  and  happy,  had  left  its  cares  and  sorrows 
at  home,  and  like  children  were  out  to  enjoy  them- 
selves. 

Upon  the  amphitheatre  the  sun  shone  down  like 
molten  brass.  A  pitiless,  quivering  brightness  hung 
on  the  still  air,  while  from  the  glistening  sand  of  the 
arena  shimmered  wavelets  of  heat. 


A  Bit  of  Old  Spain  73 

On  the  northern  side  of  the  building,  where  it  was 
most  shaded,  sat  the  gente  Una,  the  best  people ;  the 
remaining  tiers  being  occupied  by  the  mestizos,  the 
middle  classes,  who  like  lizards  basked  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

The  scene  presented  a  kaleidoscope  of  coloring,  the 
peons  in  their  white  cotton,  the  women  with  their 
rebozas  of  brown,  blue  and  red,  while  numerous  were 
the  lace  mantillas  worn  by  Mexican  beauties.  Fans 
waved,  the  building,  like  a  beehive,  buzzed  with  con- 
versation. Many  quips  and  quirks  with  liberty  of 
speech  were  bandied  forth  among  the  aristocracy. 
The  talking  everywhere  included  idiomatic  raciness 
analogous  to  the  technicalities  of  prize-fighting.  But 
at  the  sound  of  a  horn,  silence  reigned  supreme.  The 
combatants  were  entering  the  arena. 

Wearing  bright  silken  cloaks  came  the  picadors, 
mounted  on  horses  gaily  caparisoned  and  bedecked 
with  paper  roses.  Among  them  was  Pedrillo.  Never 
had  he  looked  more  handsome.  His  velvet  suit  was 
resplendent  with  gold  lace  and  buttons;  his  breast 
was  covered  with  amulets  and  charms.  A  large  felt 
hat  ornamented  with  a  long,  rich  red  plume  sat  jaun- 
tily on  his  closely  cropped  head,  giving  to  the  rider 
a  debonair  expression,  though  his  face  was  set  and 
hard. 

Amid  the  welcoming  cheers  of  the  crowd  the  pica- 
dors, with  lances  stiff  yet  ready,  took  up  their  posi- 
tions near  the  tablas,  or  wooden  barriers,  placed  at 
given  intervals  for  their  protection.  Boldly  Pedrillo 
scanned  the  assembly,  bowing  in  acknowledgment  of 
applause  first  to  the  aristocrats  on  the  northern  side 
of  the  amphitheatre.  In  rapid  survey  his  eyes  took 


74  The  Grito 

in  Don  Ramon,  who  with  Josefa  and  Castrillo  occu- 
pied seats  in  the  second  row  of  tiers.  Immediately 
a  sardonic  expression  flitted  over  the  picador's  face ; 
beneath  his  black  moustache  his  white  teeth  gleamed 
like  a  dog's  whose  inclination  is  to  bite ;  and  quickly 
he  turned  his  head  toward  the  mestizos.  There  sat 
Nina,  as  beautiful  as  he  had  ever  beheld  her.  A  sad 
expression  now  crossed  Pedrillo's  countenance,  for 
his  mind  went  back  to  those  days  when  he,  a  mere 
chulo,  had  been  encouraged  by  her  smile  to  bravery 
elevating  him  to  the  position  of  a  picador;  but  all 
his  honors  were  as  nothing  now,  coming  as  they  did 
with  so  much  misery. 

The  wooden  door  to  the  pit  was  creaking  and 
thither  all  eyes  were  turned.  It  was  the  encierro,  the 
driving  of  the  bull  into  the  arena.  Like  the  rising 
of  the  curtain  the  spirit-stirring  moment  had  come. 

Faces  flushed,  hands  clapped,  the  betting  began. 

The  bull,  blinded  by  the  light  and  noise,  came 
along  sullenly,  showing  he  was  being  forced  into 
what  to  him  meant  little  pleasure.  Stopping  to  paw 
the  earth,  as  a  faint  cloud  of  dust  rose  from  his 
hoofs,  a  loud  bellow,  like  a  blast  of  defiance,  sounded 
on  the  air. 

The  picadors  were  circling  round  him,  but  as  yet 
the  animal  seemed  to  notice  nothing.  He  was  an 
immense  toro  of  great  strength.  Around  his  thick 
neck  hung  a  garland  of  bright  roses. 

"He  will  fight !"  cried  the  onlookers. 

"Yes,  and  draw  blood!"  was  the  general  verdict 
pronounced  by  the  spectators. 

"He  is  not  a  goat !"  cried  some. 

"Nor  a  cow !"  proclaimed  others. 


A  Bit  of  Old  Spain  75 

"Just  giye  him  time,"  was  the  comment  that 
greeted  his  sullenness. 

Expectancy,  though,  was  trying  on  the  nerves  of 
the  crowd,  strained  as  they  were  to  their  utmost  ten- 
sion ;  for  never  is  this  feeling  greater  than  when  the 
animal  known  as  man  pits  his  strength  against  brute 
force.  It  means  a  conflict  of  mind  against  matter, 
a  play  in  which  adroitness  must  cope  with  fury. 

"I  shall  shut  my  eyes  when  the  fight  begins,"  said 
Josefa,  who  was  present  against  her  will,  for  Don 
Ramon  had  compelled  her  to  accompany  him  and 
Castrillo. 

"I  will  wager  that  she  does  not  though,  for  her 
womanly  curiosity  will  get  the  better  of  her,"  spoke 
up  Don  Ramon. 

"It  will  be  rare  fun!"  Castrillo  affirmed.  "The 
excitement  beats  cock-fighting,  and  I  thought  all 
ladies  enjoyed  excitement." 

"Not  when  it  is  cruel,"  remonstrated  Josefa. 

"Castrillo,"  broke  in  Don  Ramon,  "I  sometimes 
tell  her  I  think  the  convent  atmosphere  will  be  the 
only  air  suited  for  her  to  breathe,  for  that  old  fogy  of 
a  Frenchman  has  befuddled  her  mind  with  his  quix- 
otic views."  And  the  Don  shot  at  Josefa  a  threat- 
ening glance,  as  his  beetled  brows  contracted  in 
anger.  Well  enough  she  realized  she  was  being 
cautioned  to  be  agreeable  to  her  disliked  suitor. 

"Bull-fighting,"  Castrillo  was  saying,  "is  a  cus- 
tom of  our  country.  In  mediaeval  ages  kings  went 
into  the  arena  and  the  nobility  alone  had  the  privi- 
lege of  fighting  toros.  There  is  no  nationality  save 
ourselves  whose  men  are  brave  enough  to  cope  with 
such  monsters ;  men  who  would  gladly  dare  all  for  a 


76  The  Grito 

woman's  smile — "  But  the  fulsome  compliment 
with  which  Castrillo  had  planned  to  end  his  speech 
was  never  finished,  as  the  sight  in  the  arena  diverted 
his  attention. 

It  was  Pedrillo  who  first  boldly  attacked  the  bull, 
pricking  his  side  with  his  lance,  and  then  saved  him- 
self by  shying  behind  a  tabla. 

The  bull's  eyes  gleamed  wickedly,  the  bright  cloaks 
seeming  to  increase  his  fury.  He  was  beginning  to 
realize  that  he  was  being  insulted,  and  lowering  his 
big  head  as  if  for  the  crowd  to  better  see  his  long, 
sharp  horns,  he  rushed  toward  the  picador.  Pedrillo 
though  was  cool  and  easily  evaded  him.  The  inch 
deep  wounds  the  other  picadors  inflicted  seemed  to 
infuriate  him;  and  yet,  as  if  he  had  singled  out  his 
man,  all  the  bull's  rushes  were  toward  Pedrillo. 

With  neck  bent  so  that  his  head  swayed  in  a  men- 
acing way,  the  bull  came  on  and  the  picador's  horse 
swerved  and  dodged  his  assault.  Undaunted  the 
bull  charged  again.  Low,  prolonged,  and  angry 
bellows  only  intensified  the  silence  of  the  spectators 
and  enhanced  the  fear  of  Pedrillo's  horse,  that 
trembled  and  neighed  as  if  unwilling  to  risk  his  life 
— but  it  was  of  no  use.  Though  the  picador  kept 
off  the  bull  by  several  well-directed  stabs,  it  was 
only  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  long  horns  went 
under  the  horse's  belly,  and  ripped  open  his  flanks, 
almost  disemboweling  him. 

The  crowd  went  wild. 

"Bueno !  good !  good !"  they  cried. 

While  along  the  amphitheatre  rang  the  shouts : 

"Magnifico  torol" 

"Brava  toro!" 


A  Bit  of  Old  Spain  77 

"Viva  tor oT 

The  animal,  seeming  to  realize  he  was  the  object 
of  admiration,  now  did  his  best. 

Don  Ramon  had  risen  in  his  seat.  The  scene 
seemed  to  swim  before  his  eyes,  and  instead  of  the 
bull-fight  he  saw  Pedrillo  in  the  garden  under  the 
moonlight,  for  the  expression  on  the  picador's  face 
was  the  same  he  had  worn  when  the  light  of  murder 
shone  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  pitiable  to  see  the  horse,  with  entrails  trail- 
ing in  the  dust,  still  carrying  the  picador.  In  vain 
he  swerved  and  dodged  assault,  for  undaunted  the 
bull  continued  to  charge.  Pedrillo  raised  his  spear 
to  ward  him  off,  but  with  a  sudden  shake  of  his 
long  horns  the  beast  knocked  it  from  his  hands. 
It  was  all  so  swift  the  spectators  could  not  follow 
his  movements,  for  horse  and  picador  rose  in  the 
air,  and  when  they  fell  Pedrjllo  lay  nearest  the  infu- 
riated toro.  The  horse  was  writhing  in  death 
agony;  streaks  of  blood  crimsoned  his  sweat- white 
sides,  but  the  bull  heeded  him  not.  Realizing  the 
man,  not  the  steed,  was  his  adversary,  he  made  to- 
ward Pedrillo  as  if  to  paw  him  to  death. 

The  anxiety  of  the  crowd  could  no  longer  be  re- 
pressed and  a  frantic  cry  went  up  from  a  thousand 
throats. 

"Corer,  corer,  run,  run!"  they  yelled;  and  wild 
with  excitement  they  rose  in  their  seats  and  waved 
their  hats  and  fans.  Women  laughed  hysterically 
and  Josefa,  white  as  alabaster,  clenched  her  hands 
until  the  nails  drew  blood. 

Pedrillo  had  already  taken  to  his  heels.  The 
broken  lance  and  the  dead  horse  lay  in  the  center  of 


78  The  Grito 

the  arena.  Could  the  picador  reach  the  tabla  in 
time  ?  The  bull  was  pressing  close  behind  him,  bel- 
lowing furiously.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  came,  the 
clouds  of  dust  almost  hiding  his  bulky  frame. 

It  was  a  race  for  life — Pedrillo  was  still  ahead. 
The  people  hoped;  they  held  their  breath;  the  sus- 
pense, though  lasting  only  a  few  moments,  was  aw- 
ful— and  then,  high  in  the  air,  as  when  the  wind 
catches  a  balloon,  the  bull  sent  Pedrillo  flying. 

The  crowd  had  become  a  rabble.  Deranged  by 
the  sight,  they  went  wild  with  savagery.  The 
men  rose  and  waved  their  sombreros  the  women 
screamed,  as  if  for  the  first  time  they  understood 
what  it  all  meant,  and  then  their  voices  died  in 
their  throats  as  Pedrillo  fell  limp,  with  his  head 
caught  under  his  shoulder  as  only  the  dead  can  lie. 
The  bull,  like  a  conqueror,  trampled  him  under 
foot,  as  if  in  subjugating  him  he  wished  to  make 
sure  he  would  never  give  him  further  trouble — and 
then,  straining  all  the  powerful  muscles  in  his  neck, 
tossed  again  the  mangled  form  as  a  ball  is  tossed  for 
the  amusement  of  a  baby. 

The  most  vicious  taste  was  sated  at  this  display. 
There  was  nothing  lacking  in  the  spectacular  effect. 
The  poor,  unfortunate  man  had  simply  met  with  an 
incident  natural  in  his  profession.  After  all  he  was 
nothing  but  a  picador ;  and  as  chance  directed,  when 
he  fell  a  lifeless  heap  of  clay,  it  was  on  the  side  of 
the  arena  where  sat  the  halfbreeds.  Nina  with  the 
cry,  "Mi  marido,  my  husband !"  had  fallen  in  a  faint. 

The  audience  was  drunk  with  excitement.  Anxi- 
ety, eagerness,  horror  and  delight  were  stamped  on 
all  faces.  The  minutes  seemed  ages.  The  sicken- 


A  Bit  of  Old  Spain  79 

ing  sensation  of  sympathy,  the  creeping  shudder 
of  disgust  had  passed  away — the  people  cheered. 

The  bull  was  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed. 

What  was  the  pity  of  one  picador  less  ? 

Only  Don  Ramon  trembled — his  eyes  grew  glassy 
and  he  shook  as  a  man  with  a  chill ;  so  that  Castrillo, 
noting  it,  jokingly  accused  him  of  having  a  chicken- 
liver. 

While  the  remaining  picadors  held  the  bull's  at- 
tention, the  body  of  Pedrillo  was  removed,  and  a 
team  of  burros,  blanketed  in  gold,  drew  out  the  re- 
mains of  the  mangled  horse. 

The  picadors  then  retiring,  chulos,  or  men  on 
foot,  entered  and  soon  shot  barbed  darts  into  the 
neck  of  the  bull,  after  which  they  quickly  effected 
their  escape. 

Midst  a  storm  of  applause  the  matador  now  ap- 
peared in  the  ring,  clad  in  purple  satin  knee- 
breeches,  a  white  shirt  opened  at  the  throat,  and  a 
bright  yellow  sash  about  his  waist. 

Advancing  toward  the  center  of  the  pit  he  stood 
alone,  bowed  to  the  alcalde,  addressed  the  crowd 
briefly,  and  threw  down  his  velvet  glove  in  token 
that  he  was  ready  to  begin  the  fight. 

The  interest  of  all  the  spectators  concentrated  in 
him  as  he  stood  there  with  the  courage  of  a  gladia- 
tor. His  right  hand  clasped  a  straight  sharp  blade, 
his  left  waved  the  muleta,  a  red  flag  measuring  a 
yard  square. 

Now  commences  the  deadly  duel. 

The  matador  is  all  coolness,  the  bull  all  rage. 

The  crowd  is  wild.  They  jeer.  They  hiss  and 
try  with  all  their  might  to  irritate  the  man  before 


80  The  Grito 

them — to  provoke  him,  him  whom  they  require  to 
defend  himself  strictly  in  accordance  with  his  art; 
for  man  being  the  creature  of  law,  though  lowering 
himself  to  fight  with  a  brute,  is  hedged  about  by 
laws,  forbiding  him  to  kill  save  in  the  prescribed 
way. 

The  bull  charges.  The  matador  flirts  the  red  rag 
in  his  face  and  fools  him.  The  beast  is  maddened 
with  pain.  Every  movement  of  the  head  makes  the 
banderillas,  the  darts,  hurt  him  the  more.  Hoarse 
bellows  tell  of  his  fury  and  suffering.  With  head 
lowered  and  longing  for  massacre,  he  charges  again, 
but  he  is  so  blinded  by  rage  and  maddened  by  pain 
that  the  matador  passes  the  muleta  before  his  very 
eyes,  even  between  his  horns,  and  thus  provoking 
him,  laughs  at  his  own  skill. 

But  the  crowd  is  growing  weary.  They  yell,  they 
roar,  they  hiss,  and  the  matador,  realizing  they  can 
not  be  kept  waiting,  decides  to  humor  them  by  speed- 
ily ending  the  fray. 

The  bull  advances  again.  The  matador's  spine 
curves  like  a  bow,  in  concentrating  his  strength, 
then  straightens  itself  as  he  meets  the  deadly  attack. 
His  thrust  has  entered  between  the  bull's  left  shoul- 
der and  the  blade  bone.  As  the  sword  buries  itself 
to  the  hilt  the  beast  staggers,  covered  with  a  torrent 
of  blood.  Amidst  a  burst  of  tempestuous  applause, 
the  matador  salutes  the  crowd,  while  wiping  with 
his  muleta  the  hot  blood  from  his  sword. 

The  people  are  crazed.  The  men  cheer.  The 
women  throw  him  kisses,  for  at  his  feet,  as  if 
struck  by  lightning,  the  bull  lies  dead  and  the  fiesta 
is  ended. 


A  Bit  of  Old  Spain  81 

Josefa,  weeping  softly,  did  not  notice  until  they 
had  left  the  narrow  street  and  were  crossing  the 
plaza  that  Don  Ramon  had  disappeared  and  only 
Juan  Castrillo  accompanied  her.  She  was  too 
troubled  by  the  scene  just  witnessed  to  think  of 
aught  else.  "Come,"  said  Castrillo,  who,  like  the 
generality  of  men,  hated  the  sight  of  tears,  "don't 
cry;  your  lovely  eyes  were  never  intended  for  tears. 
Such  things  will  happen." 

"But  his  being  Nina's  husband  makes  it  seem  al- 
most like  a  family  affair." 

"Well,  let  the  widow  grieve  over  him.  If  you 
lay  other  people's  sorrows  to  your  heart  your  face 
will  be  a  sign-post  of  misery."  Then  changing  his 
tone  he  continued : 

"But  I  am  glad  you  have  such  a  gentle  little  heart. 
I  hope  it  may  prompt  you  to  deal  kindly  with  me; 
for,  senorita,  I  love  you  devotedly,  passionately,  and 
if  you  should  say  me  nay,  methinks  there  would  be 
naught  else  to  live  for,  so  that  I  would  kill  myself. 

"As  is  the  custom  of  our  country,"  Castrillo  went 
on,  "before  mentioning  this  to  you,  though  I  have 
longed  in  my  soul  to  ask  you,  I  sought  permission 
of  your  uncle,  who  has  bidden  me  Godspeed  in  my 
wooing." 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  haughtly  and  remained 
silent.  Her  look  was  not  inviting.  The  scorn  and 
deadly  defiance  of  her  attitude  stung  Castrillo,  but 
his  vanity  suggested  it  might  be  shyness,  and  he 
laughed  indulgently. 

"Does  silence  mean  consent?"  he  queried,  trying 
to  steal  his  arm  about  her  waist.  "If  so,  then  you 


82  The  Grrito 

will  surely  give  me  un  besito,  a  little  kiss,  to  seal 
the  compact."  And  lower  the  man  bent  his  head. 

The  girl's  eyes  blazed  with  emotion  as  she  threw 
up  her  arm  as  one  does  who  seeks  to  ward  off  a 
blow. 

"Am  I  then  so  repellent  to  you?"  Castrillo 
sneered.  "My !  how  pretty  you  look  in  a  passion." 

An  ugly  light  now  came  into  his  face,  for  his 
thoughts  were  far  from  righteous,  and  Josefa,  seek- 
ing to  escape,  was  caught  and  strained  to  his  breast 
in  a  passionate  embrace. 

"I  shall  take  by  force  what  is  denied  me  by 
caprice,"  he  said,  showering  hot  kisses  on  her  burn- 
ing cheeks. 

"You  are  a  villain!"  she  gasped,  struggling  to 
free  herself.  "Stop,"  she  cried,  "how  dare  you !" 

Castrillo  laughed  insolently  and  moistened  his  dry 
lips  with  his  tongue.  He  seemed  like  a  wolf  ready 
to  devour  a  lamb. 

"I  thought  to  cure  you  of  your  coyness !"  he  ex- 
claimed. His  manner  suddenly  changed,  his  voice 
sunk  to  the  softest  murmur.  "Forgive  me!"  he 
pleaded,  "but  your  beauty  maddened  me.  If  you 
will  only  promise  to  try  to  love  me,  if  you  will  only 
try  to  think  me  worth  loving  a  little,  I  shall  some 
day  hope  to  win  you." 

Now,  though  Don  Alphonso's  blood  had  been  the 
purest  Spanish,  yet  from  her  mother  Josefa  inherited 
an  Indian  vein,  which  at  times  shone  distinct — this 
was  one.  She  struggled  to  disengage  Castrillo's  em- 
brace with  a  strength  that  did  her  credit.  It  was 
with  the  same  fierceness  that  her  Aztec  ancestry  had 
fought  for  their  rights  against  the  Spaniard. 


A  Bit  of  Old  Spain  83 

"I  shall  never  marry  you — never,  never!"  she 
avowed,  and  her  voice  rang  contemptuous  as  she 
added : 

"I  loathe  you,  hate  you,  despise  you !  Your  very 
touch  is  a  pofrGtion  and  you  shall  not  kiss  my  lips 
that  have  already  given  their  promises  to  another." 

The  man  recoiled  and  partly  relaxed  his  hold,  as 
if  stabbed  with  incredulity. 

"This  is  news  to  me !"  he  hissed,  "and  will  doubt- 
less be  the  same  to  Don  Ramon.  And  who,  may  I 
ask,  is  the  clandestine  lover  of  Jose  fa  Urrea  ?  No,  I 
will  not  let  you  go  until  you  tell  me."  His  manner 
was  sulky,  persistent. 

Driven  to  bay  and  glorying  in  her  love,  the  maiden 
answered : 

"Carlos  Daubigney!" 

"Carlos  Daubigney,"  sneeringly  he  repeated; 
"Carlos  Daubigney,  the  blonde  Americano.  He  is 
my  rival,  is  he?  Well,  my  chiquita,  my  little  fool, 
I  am  glad  that  from  your  own  lips  I  gain  this  intelli- 
gence, for  now  I  shall  not  have  to  grope  in  the  dark ; 
the  way  is  clear  before  me."  Triumphant  malice 
gleamed  from  his  eyes  and  he  seemed  to  swell  with 
rage.  His  face,  handsome  in  a  rakish  way,  now 
looked  fiendish,  and  he  laughed  a  low  chuckle  that 
made  Josefa's  blood  crawl  in  her  veins. 

"Go!"  he  said  sternly,  and  he  pushed  the  trem- 
bling girl  far  from  him.  "Begone !"  he  commanded ; 
"begone  to  your  home,  to  your  rest  and  dream  of 
your  love — but  know  that  ere  tomorrow's  sun 
reaches  the  noonday  mark,  Carlos  Daubigney's  soul 


84  The  Grito 

will  cease  to  hanker  for  earthly  affections  such  as 
yours,  for  I  go  to  grind  my  sword." 

And  making  Jose  fa  an  earth-sweeping  bow,  the 
rejected  suitor,  with  an  air  of  braggadocio,  voiced 
his  vengeance  in  muttered  oaths  as  he  strode  away. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  GRITO   BEGINS 

The  interval  of  time  that  elapsed  since  the  Vir- 
ginian came  to  San  Antonio  had  developed  Dabney 
into  a  Texan,  but  Father  Clement  still  remained  a 
Frenchman  firm. 

While  the  two  walked  together  on  the  Military 
Plaza,  in  front  of  the  House  of  the  Priest,  the  young 
man  remarked: 

"This  is  God's  country,"  to  which  the  Jesuit  nod- 
ded approvingly;  but  the  expression  on  his  face 
changed  when  the  American  added,  "I  wish  Texas 
had  a  good  government." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  the  Frenchman  exclaimed,  "dost 
one  expect  everything  in  this  mortal  life?  A  good 
climate  and  a  good  country  the  All  Wise  has  seen 
fit  to  bestow.  If  a  good  government  were  added 
there  would  be  nothing  more  to  desire;  and  few 
of  you,  methinks,  would  ever  wish  to  be  angels." 

A  faint  smile  at  the  Jesuit's  words  flitted  over 
the  American's  face,  settling  into  an  expression  of 
sadness  as  he  remarked : 

"When  I  left  Virginia  to  seek  a  future  in  the 
West,  to  my  prayers  I  added,  'From  pestilence  and 
politics,  good  Lord,  deliver  me !'  " 


86  The  Grito 

"As  for  myself,"  broke  forth  the  Frenchman,  "I 
sought  Texas  as  a  place  of  refuge.  I  was  tired  of 
wars  and  a  supplicant  for  peace.  Lo!  I  now  find 
myself  on  the  crater  of  a  volcano,  whose  eruption  is 
bound  to  occur  sooner  or  later."  The  Priest  sighed, 
but  a  look  of  resignation  came  into  his  countenance 
as  he  continued :  "It  was  never  intended  we  should 
find  our  heart's  desire  in  this  world;  the  older  I 
grow,  the  more  I  realize  it." 

The  young  man,  however,  was  not  soliloquizing 
heavenward ;  for  the  mundane  affairs  of  those  troub- 
lous times  filled  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  other 
thoughts.  And  the  Frenchman,  by  that  curious 
transportation  of  ideas,  frequent  wrhen  minds  think 
alike, .  broached  the  subject  uppermost  in  Dabney's 
reflection. 

"I  hear  you  are  going  to  the  Consultation  at  San 
Felipe.  Is  it  true  ?" 

"Yes,"  Dabney  answered,  "I  shall  go,  God  will- 
ing." 

"God  willing,"  repeated  the  Priest,  "savors  of  a 
crusade." 

"This  may  end  in  one." 

"Not  so  fast,  mon  ami,  not  so  fast.  Youth  is 
impetuous  but  age  brings  caution." 

"I  do  not  like  the  word  'Consultation.'  'Conven- 
tion' would  have  been  more  expressive  and  better." 

"No,  no,  no,  mon  cher  Daubigney,  Texas  is  a 
province  of  Mexico;  and  a  convention  in  Mexico 
generally  means  a  prelude  to  a  revolution.  When 
first  I  met  you,"  continued  the  Priest,  "and  you 
were  a  stranger  to  me,  I  saw  at  a  glance,  you  were 


The  Grito  Begins  87 

not  a  pioneer.  Now  that  I  know  you,  I  can  recog- 
nize the  patriot." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dabney;  "it  is  in  my  blood 
and  will  come  out." 

"I  know  it,"  agreed  the  Frenchman.  Then  point- 
ing to  the  plaza,  he  said : 

"A  crowd  seems  to  be  gathering  there.  I  wonder 
what  interest  brings  them  together.  I  hope  there 
is  nothing  wrong." 

Father  Clement  and  Dabney  soon  stood  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  little  throng,  in  ear-shot  of  Henry 
Karnes,  the  trapper,  who  was  speaking: 

"Yip,  the  government  of  Mexico  has  forbidden 
the  colonization  of  Texas  by  Americans,  an'  to  make 
the  order  good,  has  shut  up  in  prison  two  pioneers, 
Pat  Jack  an'  Bill  Travis ;  but  sich  a  row  was  raised, 
the  Greasers  let  'em  out,  else  blood  would  have 
got  spilt.  But  that  ain't  all,  an'  'tain't  the  worse,  an' 
that's  what  I'm  here  for  to  tell  you.  The  folks  at 
Gonzales  has  got  a  message  to  give  up  their  cannon, 
like  how'se  they  gwine  to  keep  off  Injuns  unless  they 
has  one.  So  their  reply  was  a  point-blank  refusal  and 
they  stuck  up  a  notice  on  their  old  gingall,  'Come 
And  Take  It !'  for  men  was  thar  from  the  Colorado, 
the  Guadalupe  an'  the  Brazos,  ready  to  fit  an'  die 
for  it.  Tis  the  beginning  of  a  GRITO,  boys,  a 
GRITO — a  revolution,  a  fight  for  our  liberties." 

Hearing  this,  the  Priest  turned  to  Dabney,  say- 
ing: 

"The  match  has  touched  the  fuse." 

Murmurs  of  disapproval  of  Mexican  tyranny 
were  running  through  the  crowd,  whose  sense  of 
justice  resented  this  fresh  insult. 


88  The  Grito 

"Like  it  wa'n't  enough  to  combine  Texas  with 
Coahuila  into  one  province !"  broke  in  Captain  Dick- 
inson. "We  were  wrong,  boys,  in  not  putting  our 
foot  down  and  forbiding  the  capital  ever  being 
moved  from  San  'Tone  to  Saltillo." 

"Well,"  spoke  up  James  Bowie,  "Santa  Anna 
says  he  is  our  friend." 

"Saying  so  don't  make  it  true,"  Captain  Dickinson 
protested,  but  refrained  from  further  expression  as 
Karnes  had  begun  to  speak  again. 

"The  boys  got  jam  crazy  at  the  idee  of  Travis 
an*  Jack  not  being  'lowed  to  come  to  Texas  if  they 
felt  like  it." 

"The  time  is  at  hand,"  declared  Father  Clement 
to  Dabney,  "when  the  Texans  will  fight  for  their 
rights.  Santa  Anna's  professions  of  love  for  them 
have  sufficed  for  a  while  to  stem  the  flow  of  their 
frenzy,  but  the  storm  of  their  indignation  has  long 
since  been  gathering.  When  subjects  have  to  be 
governed  by  military  rule,"  he  continued,  "the  power 
ruling  them  is  but  a  skeleton  in  armor,  whose  shield 
is  usually  heavy  taxation.  No  wonder  the  oppressed 
try  to  free  themselves  from  the  clutch  of  such  a 
ghoulish  monster.  But  come,  mon  ami,  the  night  is 
far  spent  and  you  are  starting  for  San  Felipe  to- 
morrow, so  tarry  with  me  as  my  guest." 

Invited  thus,  Daubigney  linked  his  arm  through 
the  Jesuit's,  and  together  they  started  to  the  House 
of  the  Priest.  As  they  moved  along,  Dabney  intui- 
tively felt  he  was  being  followed.  The  plaza  was 
intensely  dark  and  the  gloom  was  further  intensified 
by  the  feeble,  flickering  light  of  the  pine  torches 
where  stood  the  crowd,  for  a  dying  moon  was 


The  Grito  Begins  89 

shrinking  into  a  shroud  of  blackness,  but  by  its  faint 
glow  a  figure  was  seen  to  move  into  the  tracks  of 
the  men.  Dabney's  attention,  though,  was  attracted 
by  loud  cheers  and  huzzaing,  so  that  he  and  Father 
Clement  halted  to  look.  Rembrandt-like  the  lights 
and  shadows  threw  out  the  figures  clustered  around 
the  trapper. 

"Karnes  seems  to  be  showing  them  something," 
observed  the  Priest. 

"Yes,"  assented  his  companion,  "it  seems  to  be  a 
notice  they  are  going  to  nail  on  that  tree — I  wonder 
what  it  is?" 

"We  will  see  in  the  morning,"  replied  Father 
Clement,  adding,  "for  here  we  are  at  my  house. 
Enter  first,  Daubigney ;  the  door  is  always  open." 

Hardly  had  these  words  passed  his  lips  when  some 
one  jostled  against  him,  and  murmuring  "Pardon, 
Padre,"  passed  on. 

"Who  was  that?"  asked  Dabney  from  the  door- 
way. 

"It  sounded  not  unlike  the  voice  of  Juan  Cas- 
trillo." 

"Did  you  catch  the  oath  he  muttered  before  seem- 
ing to  recognize  your  reverence  ?" 

"No,"  answered  the  Priest,  "all  I  heard  him  say 
was,  Too  late/  and  I  think  if  he  were  talking  of 
reconciliation  he  spoke  truly,  for  it  is  too  late  for 
Mexico  to  placate  Texas  now/' 

"Yes,  monsieur  le  cure,  the  time  has  come  for 
Texas  to  give  Mexico — a —  How  would  your  tact 
express  it,  Father?" 

"The  blessing  of  the  bullet,  my  son,"  was  the 
Priest's  reply. 


90  The  Grito 

Juan  Castrillo,  meanwhile,  having  failed  in  his 
plan  of  waylaying  his  rival,  hastened  on,  consumed 
by  that  sullen  rage  that  never  dies,  a  rage  only  to  be 
sated  with  blood. 

"I  shall  find  another  time  to  reckon  with  you, 
Daubigney,"  he  mumbled;  adding,  "For  Juan  Cas- 
trillo is  not  the  man  to  be  baffled  by  chance  when 
an  obstacle  stands  in  the  way  of  the  woman  he 
wants." 

Noticing  the  group  of  excited  men,  he  approached, 
and  by  the  glare  of  the  pine-knot  torch  read  the 
circular  Henry  Karnes  had  just  tacked  up. 

It  was  a  call  upon  each  Texan  individually  to 
decide  whether  he  would  longer  wear  the  yoke  of 
Mexico,  and  to  answer  by  the  mouth  of  his  rifle  if 
he  would  not. 

"The  devils  be  damned!"  exclaimed  Castrillo, 
turning  away.  "I  must  tell  Ramon  Urrea  of  this," 
he  said  to  himself,  "for  it  is  the  bugle  call  to  the 
foe.  No  time  for  wooing  now,  with  war  at  hand : 

both  Urrea  and  I  will  have  to  hasten  to  Mexico." 

****** 

The  little  hamlet  of  San  Felipe  resembled  a  hor- 
nets' nest,  a  hornets'  nest  molested  by  Santa  Anna, 
when  the  General  Consultation  began.  Sam  Hous- 
ton, with  a  company  of  East  Texans,  though  on  the 
way,  had  not  as  yet  arrived;  but  Stephen  Fuller 
Austin  was  already  there. 

Fearing  those  who  had  volunteered  might  be 
wrought  up  to  bitter  resentment,  and  desiring  that 
the  Texans  should  deliberate  calmly  and  maturely 
on  the  righteousness  of  their  cause,  adopting  such 
measures  as  the  tangibility  and  salvation  of  condi- 


The  Grito  Begins  91 

tions  and  the  country  required,  Austin  publicly  ad- 
dressed them  in  a  speech  that  briefly  reviewed  Mex- 
ico's injustice  to  Texas. 

It  was  a  speech  that  was  never  to  be  forgotten 
and  cast  a  wizard's  spell  upon  his  hearers;  so  that 
old  Texans  years  afterwards,  sitting  by  their  fire- 
sides, could  close  their  eyes  and  see  the  speaker 
as  he  stood  that  day  in  the  prime  of  life,  his  face 
aglow  with  patriotism,  the  most  striking  personality 
in  that  throng  of  noble  men.  His  tone  as  well  as 
his  words  of  winnowed  wisdom  his  listeners  never 
forgot. 

Austin's  ability  to  sway  men's  minds,  his  power, 
lay  in  the  way  in  which  he  separated  the  grain  from 
the  chaff — the  actual  privileges  of  the  Texan  colo- 
nists from  the  fraudulent  promises  of  Mexico.  He 
told  of  his  journey  to  the  City  of  Mexico,  whither 
he  went  as  the  emissary  of  the  people  of  Texas, 
carrying  their  appeal  for  justice.  Briefly  he  touched 
on  the  hardships  to  which  he  was  there  subjected, 
his  long  languishing  in  prison  before  being  granted 
an  audience  with  Santa  Anna,  whom  the  Texans 
had  thought  their  friend.  Austin's  explanation  of 
such  treatment  showed  that  Santa  Anna,  busy  in  his 
plans  to  make  himself  Dictator,  sought  to  retain 
him  as  a  hostage  from  Texas.  Austin  pointed  out 
Santa  Anna's  cunning  in  allying  himself  with  the 
priesthood,  for  the  Dictator  realized  that,  as  he  was 
at  heart  and  had  heretofore  been  openly  the  enemy  of 
the  Church,  this  was  the  safest  policy  to  insure  popu- 
larity with  the  masses,  whose  favor  was  even  more 
necessary  than  the  support  of  the  Army.  That 
the  Mexican  Government  had  forbidden  colonization 


92  The  Grito 

by,  and  trade  with,  Americans,  Austin  asserted  was 
an  acknowldegment  that  they  feared  and  were  jeal- 
ous of  American  superiority,  and  that  Santa  Anna 
had  shown  himself  false  to  his  promises  as  "a  patriot 
and  lover  of  liberty."  In  conclusion  Austin  said : 

"I  counseled  in  all  good  faith  with  Santa  Anna, 
accepting  his  professions  of  faith  as  sincere,  giving 
as  my  decided  opinion  that  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  sending  an  armed  force  to  this  country 
would  be  war.  I  stated  that  there  was  a  sound 
and  correct  moral  principle  in  the  people  of  Texas 
which  was  abundantly  sufficient  to  restrain  or  put 
down  all  turbulent  or  seditious  movements ;  but  that 
this  moral  principle  could  not  and  would  not  unite 
with  an  armed  force  sent  against  this  country.  On 
the  contrary  it  would  resist  it  and  repel  it  and  ought 
to  do  so!" 

Loud  cheers. 

"In  his  arrogance  he  has  disregarded  the  advice 
I  uttered  as  the  mouthpiece  of  Texas;  and  the 
Government  has  demanded  that  we  give  up  our 
arms ;  and  Mexican  soldiers,  we  hear,  are  preparing 
to  cross  our  border.  The  time  has  therefore  come 
for  our  people  to  show  the  Dictator  of  Mexico  that 
when  Texas  insists  upon  justice,  she  means  in  truth 
all  that  she  says." 

"And  will  write  the  truth  in  blood!"  shouted 
James  Bowie. 

"Damned  if  we  don't!"  chimed  in  a  man  named 
Bonham,  who  was  of  South  Carolina  blood. 

Speechmaking  had  become  the  order  of  the  day ; 
and  as  the  volunteers  clamored  to  hear  more,  Austin, 


The  Grito  Begins  93 

knowing  his  men,  beckoned  to  Dabney  and  asked 
him  to  address  the  crowd. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  expectancy  as  the  Virginian 
arose  to  comply.  The  blood  swiftly  mounted  to  his 
cheeks,  and  receding  left  perspiration  in  beads  upon 
his  brow.  His  dignity  of  manner  became  his  tall, 
straight  figure ;  his  voice,  which  at  first  was  hesitat- 
ing, soon  lost  its  tremor — for  he  forgot  the  crowd 
and  spoke  as  one  does  who  has  a  message  to  deliver. 
It  was  a  speech  never  intended  to  be  repeated ;  printed 
it  would  appear  bare,  unmasked,  for  explicit  expres- 
sion is  to  an  orator  what  daylight  is  to  an  actor. 
It  divests  him  of  that  subtle  effect  produced  by  cir- 
cumstances and  conditions — the  footlights  of  suc- 
cess. What  Dabney  said  was  timely,  and  accommo- 
dating his  speech  to  his  hearers,  his  homely  illus- 
trations went  straight  to  their  hearts,  for  he  gave 
them  the  pith  of  patriotism  rather  than  the  verbiage 
of  oratory.  In  closing  he  suggested  a  sentiment 
that  later  was  verified.  It  was  this : 

"Some  day  the  annals  of  history  will  record  this 
gathering,  and  in  letters  of  gold  will  shine  the  name 
Stephen  Fuller  Austin,  the  Father  of  Texas.  I  hope 
that  generations  now  unborn  may  deem  it  wise  to 
raise  here  on  this  spot  made  sacred  by  this  General 
Consultation  a  capital  for  Texas,  where  just  laws 
shall  be  framed  for  her  people,  and  that  they  may 
call  the  seat  of  government  not  San  Felipe,  for  that 
sounds  Mexic,  but  simply  by  the  name  of  the  patriot 
— Austin." 

While  Dabney  spoke  perfect  silence  prevailed,  and 
when  he  finished  murmurs  such  as  these  passed  from 
lip  to  lip : 


94  The  Grito 

"Who  be  that  young  'un,  anyway  ?" 

"He  talks  like  a  streak  of  lightning." 

"Yes,"  assented  Bowie,  "if  we  want  help  from 
Uncle  Sam,  we  may  pick  on  him  to  ask  for  it." 

"  'Cause  he  is  young  enough  to  go  and  come  back 
in  a  hurry,"  remarked  Henry  Karnes ;  adding,  "And 
that's  ther  kind  you  want  to  send  for  a  chunk  of 
fire,  if  yourn  be  gwine  out." 

In  the  forefront  of  the  listeners,  under  a  blackjack 
tree,  Deaf  Smith  had  stood,  vainly  endeavoring  to 
hear  all  that  was  going  on ;  so  when  Dabney's  speech 
was  concluded  the  Indian  hunter  turned  to  his  friend 
Karnes  with  the  request  that  he  would  tell  him  what 
the  Virginian  had  said.  "You  know  I  be  hard  of 
hearing/'  he  explained  to  those  about  him. 

Stopping  first  to  spit  the  amber  from  his  mouth 
before  replying,  the  trapper  supplied  himself  with  a 
fresh  chew,  then  dropping  into  the  lingo  of  the  fron- 
tier said : 

"  'Though  I  ain't  'xactly  er  Indian  hunter,  like  you 
be,  Smith,  I  don't  waste  my  time  picking  er  flowers, 
so's  I  ain't  gwine  bother  ter  tell  jist  how  he  say  it, 
'cause  I'd  have  to  ile  up  my  jaws  with  bar  grease 
ter  equal  ther  soft-soap  on  his  tongue ;  but  he  argifies 
ter  keep  er  fightin',  an'  er  clawin'  an'  er  scratchin' 
till  we  drive  off  all  pestering  varmints ;  an'  he  looks 
like  he's  got  sand  in  his  craw  an'  I  b'lieve  he'll  help 
us  ter  clean  out  these  damn  Greasers."  And  for  a 
period  to  his  remarks  the  trapper  used  a  stentorian 
oath,  which  punctuated  his  feelings  toward  the 
Mexican  nation. 


The  Grito  Begins  95 

The  result  of  this  gathering  of  volunteers  was,  the 
General  Consultation  appointed  Austin  and  others 
as  commissioners  from  Texas  to  seek  aid  in  the 
United  States.  And  Charles  Dabney  was  urged  by 
all  present  to  accompany  Austin  on  this  journey. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  COMANCHE  WITNESSES  A  SCENE 

Desolate  and  dreary  now  was  San  Antonio.  A 
little  garrison  under  Colonel  Bowie  guarded  the 
Alamo,  for  as  the  time  for  planting  crops  drew  near, 
most  of  the  volunteers  had  to  scatter  to  their  homes. 

Josefa  had  taken  refuge  with  Mother  Dickinson 
since  Don  Ramon  with  Juan  Castrillo  had  departed 
for  Mexico,  for  Nina  had  deserted  her  and  the 
Priest  could  not  always  stay  at  the  adobe  on  the 
Plaza  de  las  Islas. 

These  were  busy  days  for  the  Jesuit,  who  was  still 
trying  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters;  so  that 
the  House  of  the  Priest  ranked  with  the  Alamo  as  a 
gathering  place  for  the  discussion  of  public  happen- 
ings in  Bexar.  The  spirit  that  had  remained  dor- 
mant in  the  Frenchman  during  the  years  wherein 
Josefa  had  known  him  was  now  aroused.  He 
secretly  longed  to  shoulder  his  musket  and  march 
against  Mexico,  for  Father  Clement  despised  injus- 
tice ;  but  his  so  doing  would  have  been  making  com- 
mon cause  with  an  English-speaking  people,  and  that 
the  Frenchman  would  never  do  as  long  as  he  could 
retain  his  faculties  and  remember  Waterloo. 

One  morning  early,  Charles  Dabney,  having 
sought  the  Priest,  for  he  wished  to  consult  him, 


The  Comanche  Witnesses  a  Scene  97 

the  two  men  went  for  a  walk  that  more  private 
might  be  their  conversation. 

"I  hear,"  said  Father  Clement,  "that  at  the  Gen- 
eral Consultation  you  made  your  name  famous." 

"What's  in  a  name?"  laughed  Dabney. 

"Almost  everything,"  assured  the  Jesuit.  "Baa- 
lam's  beast  saw  conditions  and  spoke,  but  having  no 
name  has  come  down  through  the  ages  simply  as  an 


ass." 


It  then  followed  that  Father  Clement  learned  for 
the  first  time  of  the  Virginian's  determination  to 
accompany  Ausin  and  the  Commissioners  to  the 
States. 

"It  is  a  laudable  errand,  my  son,  but  we  shall  miss 
you  sorely." 

"I  hate  to  go  myself,"  acknowledged  Dabney,  "but 
believe  the  occasion  demands  it;  hence  it  is  not  a 
question  of  preference  but  of  duty." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  acquiesced  the  Priest, 
"albeit  that  alone  the  future  can  reveal.  If  one 
always  knew  which  road  to  take  there  would  be  no 
need  of  guide-posts."  And  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  he 
continued : 

"You  will  see  new  faces,  different  scenes,  and  per- 
chance have  adventures  to  occupy  your  thought ;  and 
we  shall  have  only  a  memory,  like  a  pleasant  dream, 
to  comfort  us." 

The  Virginian's  face  was  earnest,  a  new  zeal 
burned  in  his  eyes,  illumining  his  countenance,  mak- 
ing it  stronger,  more  resolute,  more  manly.  His 
life  heretofore  had  seemed  poor  in  purpose,  hence 
worthless  in  result,  due  perhaps  to  the  old  sorrow 


98  The  Grito 

that  sapped  his  strength,  the  secret  that  at  times  bore 
heavily  upon  and  well-nigh  overpowered  him.  Now 
the  past  receded  from  his  view  and  down  the  vista  of 
the  future  he  saw  a  splendid  career  awaiting  him — a 
glorious  name  on  the  country's  roll  of  heroes.  This 
mental  picture  of  daring  perils  for  honor's  sake  was 
not  solely  traceable  to  awakened  patriotism — it  was 
not  simply  love  for  liberty,  love  for  right;  but  love 
for  love,  love  for  woman,  and  the  woman  was  Josefa. 
It  was  thought  of  her  that  brought  him  to  seek  the 
Priest. 

"Monsieur  le  cure,"  he  burst  forth,  not  able  longer 
to  contain  himself,  "I  wish  to  marry  Josefa  before  I 
go — and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  sanction  it." 
He  did  not  wait  for  the  Priest's  answer,  his  earnest- 
ness carried  him  on. 

"You  cannot  understand  how  anxious  I  feel  about 
this.  You  don't  know  how  dear  she  is  to  me.  I 
know  I  am  unworthy  of  Josefa,  yet  my  love  for  her 
will  purify  my  soul,  will  make  a  better  man  of  me. 
You  don't  know  how  the  idea  of  leaving  her  hurts 
me — but  God  grant  that  it  won't  be  for  long.  The 
consciousness  that  she  is  my  wife,  mine  forever, 
would  keep  me  right  and  nerve  me  for  any  danger." 
He  had  spoken  rapidly,  freely,  and  now  that  he 
paused  noted  for  the  first  time  the  expression  on  the 
Jesuit's  face  was  not  encouraging.  Whereupon  an 
earnest  conversation  ensued,  terminating  in  a  debate 
that  excited  alike  the  Virginian  and  the  Frenchman. 
The  younger  man's  arguments  and  persuasions,  beg- 
gings and  pleadings,  had  seemingly  no  effect  upon 
the  elder,  for  the  Jesuit  remained  inexorable;  firm, 


The  Comanche  Witnesses  a  Scene  99 


though  not  stern,  with  the  tenacity  of  his  sect  cling- 
ing to  his  convictions. 

"No,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that,  despite  modulation, 
held  in  it  the  authority  of  one  who  could  command, 
"I  do  not  agree  with  you,  though  you  may  not  per- 
haps see  it,  for  man's  heart  is  selfish  above  all  things ; 
yet  I  would  fail  in  my  duty,  mon  ami,  unless  I  told 
you  the  right.  Besides  it  is  my  sacred  trust  to  try, 
so  far  as  within  my  power  lies,  to  shield  my  god- 
child from  all  pain.  Josefa  therefore  is  not  to  know 
you  are  going,  for  it  would  only  grieve  her  and  she 
will  have  enough  to  bear  as  it  is.  So  unless  you 
will  promise  silence,  as  I  live,"  emphasized  Father 
Clement,  "I  will  see  to  it  that  you  do  not  meet  again 
before  you  take  your  leave !" 

Hearing  these  words  and  noting  the  determination 
on  the  Jesuit's  face,  Dabney  realized  it  was  useless 
to  thwart  him.  Nothing  else  remaining  to  be  done, 
with  the  best  grace  he  could  muster  the  Virginian 
acquiesced. 

It  was  then  agreed  that  he  could  see  Josefa  before 
starting  on  his  long  trip  back  to  the  East,  back  to 
his  former  environment,  back  to  the  Past. 

The  course  to  be  pursued  having  been  decided, 
arm-in-arm  the  two  men  began  retracing  their  steps 
toward  the  city,  for  the  evening  sun  had  crossed  the 
noon-day  mark  and  was  beginning  to  cast  longer 
shadows  as  it  traveled.  When  the  Dickinson  cabin 
was  reached  they  were  both  calm,  with  that  quietude 
that  generally  follows  a  storm. 

Josefa,  joyful  with  the  pleasure  that  Dabney's 
coming  caused,  never  for  a  moment  suspected  aught 


100  The  Grito 

of  the  conversation  that  had  taken  place.  She 
quaffed  the  sweets  of  the  hour  like  a  little  child,  little 
reckoning  of  the  bitter  lees  the  future  contained. 

When  chameleon-like  the  sapphire  of  the  day 
changed  into  the  topaz  of  the  evening  and  the  south 
breezes  began  to  rustle  the  trees,  the  girl  and  her 
lover  went  for  a  walk.  Their  steps  took  them  down 
the  old  road,  near  the  river,  leading  to  the  Missions. 

Daubigney  tried  to  appear  natural,  to  be  bright, 
cheerful,  and  yet  he  felt  his  efforts  were  a  poor 
feint.  As  they  walked  under  the  wide-spreading 
pecans,  the  limbs  of  which  nearly  overlapped  the 
road,  the  Virginian  noticed  the  mistletoe  clinging 
to  the  upper  branches ;  and  so  he  told  her  its  legend ; 
how  sweethearts  might  kiss  under  the  mistletoe  be- 
cause its  berries  are  pearls  and  pearls  keep  their 
secrets.  Josefa  laughing  gaily,  mischievously  asked 
him  to  climb  a  tree  and  get  her  a  piece  that  she  might 
take  it  home  and  train  it  to  cover  the  arcade.  And 
then — her  mouth  was  such  a  miracle  of  beauty,  he 
clasped  her  to  his  heart  and  kissed  her  again  and 
again,  feeling  that  in  all  the  universe  no  other  lips 
were  half  so  sweet. 

But  as  the  sun's  retreating  footsteps  shone  like  a 
trail,  losing  itself  in  the  infinity  of  space,  and  a 
chilliness  began  to  settle  on  the  earth,  Dabney  feared 
that  it  was  typical  of  his  happiness.  The  terrible 
truth  of  having  so  soon  to  leave  Josefa  came  over 
him  like  a  wave,  submerging  him  in  sadness.  His 
countenance  mirrored  his  feelings  and  the  sefiorita's 
love-seeking  eyes  were  quick  to  notice  something 
was  troubling  him. 


The  Comanche  Witnesses  a  Scene          101 

"What  causes  your  sadness,  sefior?"  she  asked  in 
a  quivering  voice,  while  a  chill  crept  into  her  heart. 

"War  is  an  awful  calamity,"  was  his  reply,  which 
to  her  seemed  irrelevant,  not  knowing  that  he  had 
been  thinking  of  his  planned  trip  with  Austin,  of 
which  she  was  to  be  kept  in  ignorance. 

"Then  why  think  of  what  is  unpleasant,  why  think 
of  anything  save  that  we  are  together  ?"  And  stoop- 
ing down  she  gathered  a  bunch  of  bright-tinted 
leaves  and  fastened  them  at  her  breast.  Looking  at 
her,  so  beautiful  and  trusting,  the  Virginian  longed 
to  tell  her  this  was  his  farewell,  his  adios;  but  the 
memory  of  his  promise  to  the  Jesuit  sealed  his  lips. 
The  recollection  of  the  Priest's  words,  "Separations 
are  never  bettered  but  only  intensified  by  partings," 
rang  in  his  ears  like  the  tolling  of  a  death-knell  and 
restrained  him. 

Toward  the  east,  whither  he  was  so  soon  to  travel, 
Dabney  would  not  look;  but  facing  westward,  the 
American  took  the  sefiorita's  hand  in  his,  saying : 

"I  have  something  to  ask  you,  little  girl;  may  I 
ask  it?" 

Stealing  a  glance  toward  her  lover,  Josefa  saw  his 
face  had  turned  deadly  white  and  that  he  had  com- 
pressed his  lips;  and  as  no  sound  came  forth,  she 
exclaimed : 

"O  Carlos !  what  is  it  ?  What  trouble  can  beset 
you  that  you  will  not  let  Josefa  share  ?" 

"I  wish  to  ask  you,"  huskily  he  replied,  "that 
come  what  may,  you  will  always  try  to  think  the 
best  you  can  of  Charles  Dabney?" 


102  The  Grito 

The  manner  in  which  he  said  it,  more  than  his 
words,  convinced  the  girl  it  was  the  request  of  a 
desperate  man;  hence  all  the  millions  of  fears  that 
stir  and  flutter  in  a  love-wrung  breast  were  awak- 
ened, for  ineffably  tender  and  impetuously  ardent 
was  Josefa's  nature.  Thinking  not  of  self  nor  of 
the  world,  but  only  of  her  love,  the  senorita  pillowed 
her  head  against  his  heart  while  hers  beat  wildly. 

"O  Carlos,  my  dearest  one!"  she  whispered,  "I 
shall  always  think  well  of  you,  and  that  you  should 
know ;  for  I  love  you,  Carlos,  better  than  I  love 
aught  else;  yes,  more  than  she  loves  even  Father 
Clement  does  Josefa  love  you — her  heart  is  all 
yours." 

The  American  was  constrained,  however,  by  the 
promise  he  had  given  the  Jesuit,  and  dared  not  trust 
himself  to  speak.  Temptingly  fair  did  the  girl's 
forehead  look  against  his  rought  coat,  and  Dabney 
sought  not  to  withstand  the  temptation.  Pushing 
back  her  raven  locks  he  bent  nearer,  intending  to 
imprint  on  her  brow  un  besito;  but  Josefa  raising 
her  face  kindled  with  emotion,  changed  his  purpose, 
and  he  kissed  her  ruby  lips  instead,  in  a  long,  linger- 
ing kiss,  full  of  pity  rather  than  passion.  But  the 
Mexican  maiden  little  dreamed  that  he  was  bidding 
her  good-by  and  that  it  was  un  beso  of  farewell. 

Twilight  spinning  its  gray  web  over  the  world, 
the  twin  towers  of  the  Mission  of  La  Concepcion 
seemed  blending  with  the  sky;  and  as  Dabney  and 
Josefa  turned  homeward  there  was  a  little  rustle  of 
the  leaves  not  made  by  the  wind,  but  caused  by  a 
human  being  slipping  into  the  river's  foliage. 


The  Comanche  Witnesses  a  Scene          103 

Neither  the  sefiorita  nor  the  Virginian,  however, 
heard,  for  almost  noiselessly  Big  Terrapin,  the  Co- 
manche chief,  having  witnessed  the  lovemaking, 

stole  away. 

****** 

Before  the  glory  of  the  morning  stole  into  the 
eastern  sky  Dabney  had  already  left  San  Antonio, 
though  Jose  fa  knew  it  not.  As  the  day  wore  on 
without  her  seeing  him  she  wondered  in  vain  for 
the  reason,  and  the  Priest  deemed  it  kinder  not  to 
enlighten  her.  She  tried  to  console  herself  by  argu- 
ing no  harm  could  come  to  one  so  noble,  so  brave, 
so  strong ;  and  yet  forebodings  and  fears  racked  her, 
so  that  as  the  time  drifted  into  weeks,  instead  of 
wondering  expectancy,  a  sad  light  crept  into  the 
senorita's  eyes,  around  which  dark  circles  spoke  of 
suffering.  Listless  and  languid  became  her  move- 
ments, for  still  no  tidings  came  of  her  hero. 

Watching  the  road,  Josefa  did  not  realize  that 
pleasures  can  never  return  through  the  avenues  by 
which  they  came,  but  are  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of 
experience. 

Mother  Dickinson,  appreciating  the  girl's  loneli- 
ness, tried  to  comfort  her,  and  being  more  of  a 
housewife  than  a  sentimentalist,  she  counseled : 

"Do  not  keep  looking  for  him,  honey,  for  'tis  a 
true  saying  that  a  watched  pot  never  boils." 

But  Josefa  heeded  not,  for  Carlos  Daubigney  had 
gone  out  of  her  life,  taking  the  sunshine  with  him. 
And  meanwhile  Father  Clement  pondered,  and 
prayed,  and  held  his  peace. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  WOLF  ON  THE  FOLD 

Clang !  Clang !  Clang !  Furiously  pealed  the  alarm 
from  the  belfry  of  San  Fernando. 

Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Echoed  the  jarring,  dis- 
cordant ringing  far  and  wide  over  the  old  city  of 
Bexar. 

"Hear  you  that  sound  ?"  asked  one. 

"Aye,  aye;  it  means  run,  run,  run,  there's  danger  1" 

"Come,,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "let's  hasten  to  ask 
of  the  sentinel  the  cause." 

"Indians,  the  Comanches ;  that  demon  Big  Terra- 
pin thinks  now  is  the  time  to  fleece  the  fold." 

"More  likely  it's  the  damn  Mexicans,"  interrupted 
a  listener.  "They  are  worse  than  the  Comanches, 
Apaches,  and  Lipans  put  together." 

"  Tain't  the  Mexicans ;  not  yit,  boys,  not  yit,"' 
spoke  up  a  frontiersman;  adding,  "Yer  needn't  ter 
'spect  'em  till  the  spring  grass  comes — fer  the  pryrie 
'twixt  here  an'  the  Rio  Grande  is  as  bare  as  a  crow's 
nest  at  this  time  o'  year  and  their  pack  animals  would 
starve  'fore  they  got  here." 

"The  city  of  San  Antonio  was  already  in  a  tumult. 
The  people,  excited  by  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  poured 
into  the  streets  like  a  mob,  and  the  greatest  confu- 
sion prevailed ;  for  the  tocsin  of  war  had  sounded. 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  105 

"The  Mexicans,  the  Mexicans !"  was  passed  from 
lip  to  lip.  "The  Mexican  army  is  approaching." 

"True,  true,"  declared  Father  Clement  sadly ;  "al- 
ready their  troops  are  crossing  the  slopes  west  of 
the  San  Pedro." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Captain  Dickinson. 

"Seeing  is  believing,"  replied  the  Jesuit,  "and 
with  my  own  eyes  from  the  belfry  of  San  Fernando 
I  saw  the  sun  glistening  on  their  uniforms." 

"To  the  Alamo,  the  Alamo!"  the  crowd  began  to 
yell. 

"Yes,  the  Alamo,  the  Alamo!"  repeated  Captain 
Dickinson,  as  he  dug  deep  his  spurs  in  his  horse's 
flanks. 

Hurriedly  the  American  sought  the  safety  of  the 
Alamo,  for  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  no  time  for 
preparation,  the  wolf  was  already  upon  the  fold. 

Within  the  Alamo  all  was  astir.  The  atmosphere 
of  gray  antiquity  pervading  the  place  was  dispelled 
by  the  moving  life  of  the  little  garrison,  who  by  ones 
and  in  groups  were  hurrying  to  their  posts  of  duty. 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Bowie,  as  the 
men  came  running  in,  "to  think  how  I  would  like 
to  fight  if  I  could."  Then  turning  on  his  side  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  arm,  while  sobs  shook  his  poor, 
emaciated  frame.  The  excitement  of  the  moment 
had  proven  too  much  for  one  who  for  weeks  had 
lain  flat  on  his  back  with  typhoid-pneumonia.  When 
he  could  control  his  voice,  Bowie  spoke : 

"How  much  corn  is  there  in  the  granary  ?" 

"Three  bushels,  sir,"  answered  Tapley  Holland, 
the  quartermaster. 


106  The  Grito 

"Evans,"  shouted  Bowie,  "you  and  Bonham  make 
a  search  throughout  the  city  and  bring  in  all  the 
provisions  you  can  get.  Quick,  hurry !" 

To  Holland  he  then  said,  "Tell  Travis  to  report 
to  me." 

"Here  I  am,  Colonel,"  spoke  up  Travis,  "ready 
for  orders." 

"Come  close  to  my  cot,"  said  Bowie,  "for  my  voice 
is  weak,  and  we  must  plan  our  defense,  for  since  I 
am  sick  the  command  will  fall  upon  you." 

When  the  bells  of  San  Fernando  rang  out  on  the 
air,  Mother  Dickinson,  sitting  on  her  cabin  step, 
holding  her  little  girl  in  her  lap,  wondered  what  it 
meant ;  but  she  was  soon  to  know,  for  in  a  few  min- 
utes her  husband  galloped  up,  calling  out : 

"The  Mexicans  are  upon  us !  Hand  me  the  child 
and  jump  up  behind." 

"Josefa,"  called  Mother  Dickinson,  "the  Mexicans 
have  come,  we  are  off  for  the  Alamo;  come  along!" 

"I  cannot,"  replied  the  girl,  "before  first  seeing 
Father  Clement." . 

"He  bade  me  tell  you  stay  with  my  wife,"  called 
Captain  Dickinson. 

"Don't  wait  for  me,"  urged  Josefa,  "for  I  shall 
follow  just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a  few  things." 

While  she  was  hurriedly  preparing  a  bundle, 
Father  Clement  entered  the  cabin. 

"No,"  said  the  Jesuit,  "I  shall  not  go  within  the 
fort,  for  I  may  accomplish  more  for  your  safety  by 
remaining  outside;  for  being  a  priest,  in  the  name 
of  the  Church  I  can  implore  mercy  of  the  Mexicans. 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  107 

But  hasten,  my  daughter,  for  I  shall  not  leave  you 
until  you  are  safe  with  Mother  Dickinson." 

As  the  two  sped  on,  the  Jesuit  asked : 

"Have  you  seen  Nina  recently?" 

"Yes,  this  morning  I  saw  her  as  she  hurried  by, 
telling  me  the  muleteers  arrived  from  the  Rio  Grande 
had  brought  a  peddler  with  them  who  had  lovely 
dresses  for  sale.  Strange,  Father,  she  always  has 
money,  though  Pedrillo  is  dead  and  she  doesn't 
seem  to  work." 

"Humph!"  muttered  the  Priest  aside,  "love  of 
money  is  the  root  of  all  evil."  Then  in  a  louder 
tone  asked,  "Have  you  heard  aught  of  your  uncle 
since  his  departure?" 

"No,  there  is  no  news." 

"Well,"  said  Father  Clement,  "I  learned  from  the 
muleteers  last  night  that  Urrea  and  Castrillo  were 
both  high  now  in  the  Mexican  Army." 

"Is  that  true?'*  Josef  a  asked  incredulously. 

"Yes,  they  have  been  given  responsible  places  be- 
cause they  are  familiar  with  the  territory  of  Texas." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Josefa,  "for  if  other  interests 
claim  their  attention  we  may  be  rid  of  them." 

"It  is  the  old  case  of  an  ill  wind,  my  child;  but 
that  was  not  all  I  heard." 

"No?" 

"Rumor  has  it  that  Juan  Castrillo  has  wedded  the 
sister  of  Santa  Anna." 

"Oh,  Madre  de  Dios!"  exclaimed  the  girl  joyfully. 


108  The  Grito 

"Why,  Josefa,  I  am  shocked  at  your  humor.  Me 
feared  this  news  would  break  thy  heart,  my  chiquita, 
my  little  one."  And  the  Jesuit  forced  a  laugh. 

"O  Padre,  you  know  how  I  despise  him !" 

"I  knew  thou  hadst  often  said  so,  but  an  old 
codger  like  me  can  not  always  reason  woman's  words 
and  woman's  ways  as  premises  to  a  correct  conclu- 
sion; but  here  we  are  at  the  Alamo.  May  the 
Blessed  Mother  shield  you,  my  lamb,  from  all  evil !" 
And  bending  over  he  imprinted  a  fatherly  kiss  on 
her  lips. 

Josefa  now  burst  into  tears ;  the  formidable  aspect 
of  the  fort  awed  her. 

Men  were  preparing  to  mount  the  Alamo  with 
artillery. 

"Put  four  pieces  facing  the  gateway,"  Travis  was 
ordering. 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Dickinson,  "they  will  com- 
mand the  bridge  across  the  river." 

"We  must  next  put  four  more  to  face  the  north 
and  four  more  to  face  the  town,"  continued  Travis. 

"Colonel,  that  won't  leave  but  two;  for  the  south 
side  of  the  church,"  remonstrated  Dickinson. 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  Travis  declared,  "for  if  'tis 
a  siege  we've  got  to  protect  our  water  supply,  for 
these  acequias  are  just  as  necessary  for  our  existence 
as  those  oxen  they  are  driving  in  the  quatrel." 

"How  many  did  Evans  and  Bonham  succeed  in 
getting  ?"  asked  Dickinson. 

"Thirty  beeves,"  spoke  up  Holland,  "and  about 
eighty  bushels  of  meal." 

"Humph!"  exclaimed  Dickinson,  "mighty  poor 
commissary  for  a  besieged  fort." 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  109 

"But,"  said  Travis,  "God  is  on  our  side,  and  we 
must  not  think  of  food,  but  of  freedom/' 

"What's  our  strength?"  queried  Bonham. 

"Well,"  answered  Dickinson,  "I  think  Colonel 
Bowie  said  we  were  one  hundred  and  forty-two." 

"That's  right,"  affirmed  Travis,  "and  we  are  all 
American  colonists  who  migrated  to  Texas  under 
the  colonization  law  protecting  our  rights  and  our 
liberties.  But  come,  boys,  let's  to  work,  so  as  to 
show  Santa  Anna  what  a  tough  job  might  will  have 
when  tackling  right." 

The  garrison  of  the  Alamo  was  a  motley  throng; 
men  whose  lives,  many  of  them,  had  been  adven- 
turous, such  as  those  times  made  possible  and  which 
now  would  scarcely  be  undertood.  The  incrusta- 
tions of  their  frailties,  like  the  lichen  on  a  stone, 
were  superficial  compared  with  their  rock-bottom 
worth.  Rough-hewn  they  were;  but  patriotism  is  a 
lapidary  that  can  polish  the  plainest  life  into  beauty, 
an  alchemy  that  can  separate  the  dirt  and  quartz 
and  sand,  transmuting  alloy  into  purest  gold. 

The  Alamo,  like  all  missions,  though  combining 
presidio  with  church,  was  more  of  a  monastery  than 
a  fort.  It  lacked  the  strength  and  compactness  of  a 
regular  fortification.  In  the  southeast  corner  of  the 
enclosure,  which  covered  in  all  an  area  of  nearly 
three  acres,  stood  the  old  church  building,  its  walls 
four  feet  thick  of  solid  masonry.  Connected  with  it 
were  the  narrow  convent-rooms  used  as  barracks. 
Part  of  the  roof  of  the  chapel  had  fallen  in,  but  this 
did  not  prevent  the  rear  end  of  the  building  being 
used  as  a  magazine. 


110  The  Grito 

Everybody  within  the  fort  was  busy.  All  hands 
worked.  Most  of  the  men  busied  themselves 
strengthening  the  wall,  while  a  few  prepared  mis- 
siles. Even  Mother  Dickinson  and  Josefa  lent  their 
aid  in  moulding  bullets.  The  men  intuitively  felt 
the  refining  influence  of  the  women's  presence  and 
gave  them  soldiers'  homage.  But  as  the  click,  click 
of  molten  lead  fell  from  the  bullet-mould  a  rough- 
looking  individual  remarked : 

"Mighty  sweet  music  to  hear  'em  clattering  in  the 
pan.  I  hope  we  will  blow  'em  to  hell." 

Just  then  a  hubbub  was  heard  toward  the  gateway. 

"What's  up  ?"  was  the  query. 

"It's  four  travelers  pushing  on  to  reach  the 
Alamo." 

A  man  in  a  deer-skin  suit  and  a  fox-skin  cap, 
carrying  a  beautiful  rifle,  appeared  their  leader, 
while  a  savage-looking  creature,  with  a  deep  sabre 
cut  adding  fierceness  to  his  countenance,  brought  up 
the  rear. 

As  the  little  band  entered  the  Alamo  building  a 
Texan  volunteer,  looking  up  from  cleaning  his  gun, 
casually  inquired : 

"Who  be  ye,  stranger?" 

Whereat  a  voice  rang  out,  clear  as  a  clarion,  caus- 
ing every  person  to  stop  and  listen : 

"Who  be  I,  stranger?"  it  repeated,  "I  am  that  same 
Davy  Crockett,  fresh  (  from  the  backwoods,  half 
horse,  half  alligator,  a  little  touched  with  the  snap- 
ping turtle.  I  can  wade  the  Mississippi,  leap  the 
Ohio,  and  slide  without  a  scratch  down  a  honey- 
locust.  I  can  whip  my  weight  in  wild  cats,  and  if 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  111 

any  gentlemen  pleases,  for  a  ten-dollar  bill  he  can 
throw*!  in  a  cougar.  I  can  hug  a  bear  too  close  for 
comfort  and  eat  any  man  opposed  to  Texas  liberty." 

When  this  speech,  so  typical  of  the  Tennesseean, 
ended,  a  hurrah  loud  and  long  went  up  from  the 
Alamo;  for  the  reputation  of  David  Crockett  was 
well  known  throughout  the  land  and  his  presence 
was  welcomed  with  delight  by  the  little  garrison. 

Turning  to  the  crowd,  in  a  characteristic  way 
Crockett  introduced  his  friends,  a  juggler,  a  bee- 
hunter  and  a  scar-seamed  old  pirate,  who  all,  like 
himself,  he  said,  "Had  come  to  lend  a  hand  in  help- 
ing Texas  on  the  highroad  to  freedom." 

While  good  humor  played  about  his  mouth,  in 
concluding  his  remarks  the  backwoodsman  said : 

"Boys,  ain't  you  got  something  for  a  fellow  to 
wet  his  whistle,  'cause  I  feel  dry  as  a  powder-horn." 

After  being  refreshed,  David  was  ushered  into  the 
room  where  lay  James  Bowie. 

While  the  two  talked,  the  sick  man  ran  his  hand 
under  his  pillow,  producing  a  long  knife,  sharpened 
on  both  sides,  and  slightly  curved  at  the  point. 
Holding  it  so  the  light  gleamed  upon  the  blade  he 
said: 

"Look,  Colonel,  this  is  what  the  boys  call  a  bowie- 
knife.  My  brother  Rezin  had  the  first  one  made. 
He  took  an  old  file  and  got  a  blacksmith  to  shape  it 
this  way,  then  he  gave  it  to  me.  'In  the  hands  of  a 
strong  man/  says  Rezin,  'it  is  better  than  a  pistol, 
for  a  pistol  sometimes  misses  fire,  but  a  knife  strikes 
to  hit.'  Soon  as  the  other  boys  saw  it,  they  wanted 
one,  so  lots  of  'em  have  been  made  since.  You 


112  The  Grito 

could  tickle  a  fellow's  ribs  a  long  time  with  this  little 
instrument  before  you  would  make  him  laugh, 
couldn't  you  ?"  And  Bowie  chuckled. 

"The  bare  sight  of  it  almost  gives  me  the  colic !" 
was  Crockett's  comment.  As  Bowie  had  several  of 
these  knives,  he  begged  David  to  accept  one.  With 
a  grim  smile  the  Tennesseean  took  it,  saying : 

"I  guess  you  feel  'bout  the  bowie-knife  like  I  do 
'bout  my  rifle,  my  Betsy.  I  love  her  like  she  was 
human,  so  I  had  to  name  her,  and  I  am  ready  to 
introduce  her  to  Santy  Anny  any  time  he  shows  his 
pumpkin  face  within  these  walls."  He  stroked  his 
chin,  shut  his  eyes,  and  threw  back  his  head  in  a 
knowing  fashion. 

"Ah,"  he  continued,  "I  would  rather  be  a  coon- 
dog  and  b'long  to  a  nigger  in  the  forest  than  to  be 
oppressed  by  such  a  skunk  as  Santy  Anny,  who, 
while  feeding  you  on  fox-tails  and  thistledown,  has 
been  grinding  the  life  out  of  you  with  his  iron  heel. 
I'd  like  to  have  his  scalp  to  make  me  a  moccasin." 

In  so  saying,  Crockett  voiced  the  sentiment  of 
every  man  within  the  fort.  When  it  came  to  his 
taking  the  prescribed  oath  of  allegiance  to  Texas  he 
absolutely  refused  to  swear  fidelity  unless  the  adjec- 
tive "Republican"  was  inserted  between  the  words 
"Future  Government"  of  Texas. 

"No,  sir'ree-bob,  I  ain't  going  to  do  it,  for  Davy 
Crockett  ain't  the  man  to  jump  out  of  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire.  That's  why  I  left  Tennessee,  'cause  I 
vowed  Andry  Jackson  should  never  label  me  with 
no  such  tag  as  'My  Dog';  for  I  am  a  free  man, 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  113 

and  I  want'  a  free  government,  for  the  rights  of  all 
people  alike  to  be  respected." 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  become  the  soldiers' 
favorite.  With  words  of  cheer  and  comfort  he  en- 
couraged all  about  him.  When  his  store  of  good 
stories  was  well-nigh  exhausted  he  would  seize  the 
fiddle  and  play  for  the  men,  meanwhile  conjuring  up 
a  fresh  supply  of  anecdotes  from  his  limitless  mem- 
ory. Davy  was  a  natural  yarn-spinner  as  well  as  a 
natural  musician.  He  handled  the  bow  with  the 
same  passionate  love  with  which  he  used  his 
rifle  in  tackling  a  grizzly.  He  twanged  the  fiddle 
to  many  a  familiar  tune,  so  that  there  was  jig- 
dancing,  shuffling,  and  singing  of  songs  ribald  and 
merry,  then  plaintive  and  pathetic,  as  is  often  the 
case  on  the  verge  of  a  battle. 

Thus  was  gloom  driven  from  the  Texas  tent;  so 
later,  when  Santa  Anna  himself  arrived  with  his 
fresh  forces  and  dispatched  a  notice  to  the  Alamo, 
demanding  unconditional  surrender,  though  Travis 
courteously  received  and  dismissed  the  messenger, 
afterwards  quickly  his  cannon  boomed  a  defiant  NO 
in,  the  face  of  the  Mexican  army.  The  old  city  of 
Bexar  reverberated  the  echo.  The  plains  took  up 
the  sound  and  sent  it  back  as  if  the  land,  awakening 
with  liberty,  voiced  Travis's  refusal  to  surrender, 
and  belched  forth  defiance. 

Though  his  courier  had  not  returned,  Santa  Anna 
apprehended  its  meaning  and  a  look  hard  and  deter- 
mined settled  upon  his  face,  a  face  never  pleasant 
to  look  upon,  with  its  crafty  black  eyes  and  thick, 
bestial  mouth.  Turning  to  an  orderly  he  said : 


114  The  Grito 

"Tell  General  Castrillo  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  him 
immediately." 

In  a  few  moments  the  officer  entered  the  room. 

"Come,  be  seated/*  Santa  Anna  said;  "privately 
we  can  dispense  with  army  etiquette.  Now  what 
have  you  learned?" 

"Nothing,  General,  of  any  import.  The  woman, 
though,  has  agreed  and  is  at  our  service.  Tomor- 
row night  she  goes  to  the  fort,  seeks  admission,  and 
then  later  will  steal  out  and  tell  us  with  whom  we 
have  to  deal.  She  is  clever  and  inventive.  Words 
will  come  to  her  mouth  without  our  putting  them 
there." 

"Speak  on  and  openly,"  commanded  Santa  Anna; 
"withhold  nothing." 

"Cierto!"  said  Castrillo;  "as  I  have  told  you  before, 
she  was  a  servant  in  the  household  of  Ramon  Urrea, 
where  lived  his  niece,  a  pretty  huzzy,  lost  to  her 
own  good  by  being  enamored  with  one  of  those  damn 
Americanos.  She  loves  the  old  padre  like  a  father^ 
This  is  his  house  you  now  occupy.  I  have  no  pa- 
tience with  him,  a  praying  old  ass,  and  it  did  me 
good  to  inconvenience  him  by  establishing  your 
quarters  here." 

"Do  you  mean  the  French  priest  who  has  been 
seeking  to  dissuade  me  from  war?" 

"Yes,  Father  Clement,  the  most  powerful  factor 
in  all  San  Antonio." 

"Well,  proceed." 

"The  spy-woman,  Nina,  will  go  to  the  Alamo, 
seeking  Josefa  Urrea,  to  tell  her  Santa  Anna's  sol- 
diers have  seized  the  House  of  the  Priest,  and  that 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  115 

in  the  confusion  Father  Clement  was  accidentally 
shot.  That  he  is  now  dying  and  wishes  to  give  her 
his  blessing." 

"Let  the  woman  go  to  the  Alamo  under  a  flag  of 
truce,"  suggested  Santa  Anna. 

"No,  General,  let  her  rush  off  alone;  it  will  look 
less  as  if  the  act  was  planned." 

"Capital,  Castrillo ;  you  would  have  made  a  better 
diplomat  than  a  soldier." 

"All  is  fair  in  war — and  love,"  came  the  reply, 
the  last  words  of  which  were  uttered  so  low  Santa 
Anna  did  not  hear  them ;  for  just  then  the  messenger 
returned,  bearing  Travis's  refusal.  Santa  Anna's 
face  was  livid  with  rage  as  he  read  it. 

"Castrillo,"  he  said,  "have  a  blood-red  banner 
run  up  on  the  highest  belfry  in  the  city,  for  their 
impertinence  merits  my  vengeance.  Tell  the  woman 
to  let  the  garrison  of  the  Alamo  know  all  prisoners 
will  be  shot  and  the  best  lands  divided  out  to  the 
Mexican  soldiers.  This  will  have  its  effect,  and  soon 
the  gringos  diablos  will  come  pouring  out  of  that 
hole  of  a  fort  like  rats  when  a  ship's  afire,  glad 
enough  to  lay  down  their  arms.  Tell  her  to  let  them 
know,  Santissima  Virgenl  all  foreigners  will  be 
treated  like  pirates  unless  they  surrender,  for  in  sup- 
pressing this  spirit  of  rebellion  Texas  shall  not  only 
pay  for  it  but  receive  no  quarter.  This  province 
shall  learn  to  respect  the  Government  of  Mexico!" 

The  Spaniard,  leaving  the  room,  muttered  under 
his  breath : 

"And  Santa  Anna  seeks  to  make  himself  the  Gov- 
ernment of  Mexico." 


116  The  Grito 

Castrillo's  plan  to  send  Nina  to  the  Alamo  was 
prompted  more  by  his  desire  to  rescue  Josefa  than  to 
learn  the  condition  of  the  garrison.  When  he 
thought  of  her,  the  woman  he  loved,  being  in  such 
danger,  sadness  flooded  his  soul  like  a  gigantic  sea- 
wave.  The  probability  of  Santa  Anna's  storming 
the  fort  while  Josefa  was  within,  maddened  him, 
for  rake  though  he  had  been,  never  had  Castrillo 
loved  any  one  or  desired  any  thing  as  ardently  as  he 
did  Josefa.  Her  memory  haunted  him.  He  laid 
awake  at  night  and  thought  of  her  beauty  with  a 
longing  that  was  unbearable,  that  crazed  him.  Then 
he  cursed  her  in  his  heart  for  refusing  to  marry  him, 
until  his  passion,  like  a  prairie  fire,  swept  all  else 
before  it,  and  he  felt  only  how  he  loved  her,  how 
unbearable  life  would  be  without  her. 

He  knew  his  plan  was  an  audacious  one,  but  suc- 
cess often  crowned  audacity;  so  he  would  tole  Josefa 
out  of  the  Alamo,  and  once  she  was  in  his  power  he 
would  lift  the  veil  revealing  to  her  young  heart  all 
the  mystery  of  love — then  she  would  be  his. 

A  blood-red  banner  soon  flapped  like  the  broken 
wing  of  a  cardinal  from  the  belfry  of  San  Fernando. 

The  Texans  within  the  Alamo  needed  no  interpre- 
tation of  its  meaning.  Looking  at  it  they  nerved 
themselves  for  the  worst,  determining  to  sell  their 
lives  at  the  dearest  cost  to  Mexico,  for  they  knew 
surrender  meant  tyranny;  more  terrible  than  death. 

"Jist  look  at  that  flag,"  said  Davy  Crockett,  "float- 
ing thar  in  God's  bright  sunshine,  a  disgrace  to 
humanity." 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  117 

"It  means  they  want  our  blood,"  gruffly  said  a  vol- 
unteer. 

"Well,  they  will  have  to  buy  it  with  their  own," 
spoke  up  Bonham,  who  added  cynically,  "  'cause  they 
ain't  such  friends  that  we  are  going  to  give  it  to 
them  for  nothing." 

"Right  you  are,"  broke  in  Travis,  "for  I  shall 
never  surrender  or  retreat.  I  am  determined  to  sus- 
tain myself  as  long  as  possible,  and  if  the  Mexicans 
take  the  fort  it  shall  be  a  defeat  to  them." 

All  who  heard  the  tall,  red-haired  North  Caro- 
linian recognized  it  was  not  vain  boasting,  but  moral 
sublimity,  for  no  tinge  of  cowardice  lurked  in  his 
honest  eye. 

"What  does  this  flag  floating  over  us  stand  for, 
anyway?"  inquired  Crockett. 

Pointing  to  the  ensign  above  the  Alamo,  Travis 
explained : 

"The  red,  white,  and  green  are  the  colors  of  Mex- 
ico, while  the  two  stars  stand  for  Texas  and  Coa- 
huila." 

"I  don't  relish  fighting  under  no  Mexican  flag!" 
declared  Crockett. 

"Me  neither !"  echoed  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"But  this  is  not  the  flag  of  Mexico,  but  of  this 
province,"  expostulated  Captain  Dickinson,  "for 
their  emblem  is  an  eagle  with  a  snake  in  his  mouth, 
rising  out  of  a  cactus  tree." 

"Nothing  could  suit  them  better,"  broke  in  Davy 
Crockett,  "for  they've  got  all  the  slippery  mean- 
ness of  a  sarpent,  an'  well  might  they  put  the  eagle, 
which  is  our  bird,  above  the  cactus,  for  the  Ameri- 


118  The  Grito 

can  would  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  settle  himself 
in  a  prickly-pear  bed,  whar  nothing  but  a  snake  could 
be  comfortable. 

j"No,"  he  continued,  "them  two  stars  be  very 
pretty,  but  as  Texas  don't  want  to  be  looked  upon 
'long  with  Coahuila,  s'pose  we  strike  Coahuila  out 
an'  jist  let  one  star  stand  for  Texas/' 

"Good,  good !"  exclaimed  all  who  heard  him. 

"One  star  for  Texas !" 

"We  don't  want  Mexico  as  our  background 
either,"  added  Bonham. 

"Yer  bet  we  don't,"  agreed  a  volunteer. 

"Let's  make  a  flag  for  ourselves,"  chimed  in 
another. 

"Them  women  in  the  fort  can  make  us  a  beauty," 
broke  in  a  young  Texan. 

"Then  go  and  fetch  them,"  commanded  Crockett. 

After  Mother  Dickinson  and  Josefa  were  sum- 
moned, he  continued,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Josefa,  being 
a  great  admirer  of  beauty : 

"We  sent  for  you  'cause  we  need  your  taste  to 
make  us  a  flag,  to  replace  this  thing  flapping  above 
us,"  indicating  the  one  over  the  Alamo.  "An'," 
added,  Crockett,  pointing  to  the  red  banner  on  San 
Fernando,  "we  don't  fancy  the  looks  of  that  thar 
neither.  It's  too  much  like  the  Devil's  own  sign; 
so  we  want  something  'xactly  opposite,  something 
more  like  the  blue  of  heaven !"  And  the  bear-hunter 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  azure  sky  shining  through  the 
opening  in  the  old  church  roof. 

"Then  wait,"  said  Josefa,  to  whom  his  words 
seemed  particularly  addressed,  as  she  hurried  back 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  119 

to  the  convent-room  that  was  set  aside  for  the  wo- 
men's use.  Reaching  there,  the  senorita  unrolled  a 
small  bundle  she  had  brought  with  her.  Besides  a 
few  necessaries,  it  contained  the  rich  cerulean  silk 
her  grandmother  had  brought  from  the  Canary 
Islands,  the  texture  of  which  was  so  strong  and 
heavy  that,  having  been  rarely  used,  it  was  still 
bright  and  beautiful.  Speeding  back  to  the  church 
the  girl  displayed  the  dress,  upon  which  the  men 
cast  admiring  glances,  for  the  silk  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  coarse  suits  of  buckskin  and 
homespun  worn  by  the  Texans.  Soon  the  skirt  was 
ripped  from  the  waistband  and  spread  open,  pre- 
senting area  amply  large  to  secure  therefrom  a  flag. 

"It  is  just  as  opposite  in  color  from  the  Mexican's 
flag  as  we  are  in  principle,"  commented  Captain 
Dickinson. 

"But  it's  got  to  have  one  star  on  it,"  declared  a 
weatherbeaten  frontiersman. 

"Yes,"  said  an  old  Texan,  "the  Star  of  Tejas," 
giving  the  word  Texas  its  old-time  pronunciation. 

"I  have  not  any  silk  of  a  contrasting  color,"  re- 
gretfully sighed  Josefa. 

"Don't  you  pester  'bout  that,  honey,"  spoke  up 
Colonel  Crockett,  "for  cotton  will  do  as  well." 

"Do  better,"  interposed  a  Georgian  standing  by, 
"  'cause  cotton  is  gwine  ter  be  th'  emblem  of  this 
country." 

When  a  white  star  had  been  cut,  Josefa  rapidly 
sewed  it  in  the  center  <3f  the  flag. 


120  The  Grito 

"Let's  brand  it  now  with  our  own  name,"  sug- 
gested a  ranchman,  "so  it  can  not  be  blotted  out, 
for  we  will  never  be  a  maverick  of  Mexico." 

Whereupon  with  a  crudely  sharpened  stick,  at  the 
points  of  the  star,  were  inscribed  the  letters : 

T-E-X-A-S. 

And  when  the  flag  was  run  up  and  unfurled  itself 
to  the  breezes,  the  garrison  of  the  Alamo  gave  a 
shout  loud  and  long  for  The  Lone  Star! 

The  men  within  the  fort  now  numbered  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy-six,  due  to  the  arrival  from  Gon- 
zales  of  thirty  volunteers.  In  welcoming  them  Davy 
Crockett  said : 

"I  wish  instead  of  you  being  thirty,  you  was  a 
thousand,  for  the  Mexicans  are  getting  as  plentiful 
around  the  Alamo  as  pigtracks  'round  a  corncrib." 

"  'Tis  a  pity,"  he  added,  "you  didn't  bring  your 
victuals  with  you,  for  rations  are  gitting  short,  as 
food  is  powerful  scarce  with  us ;  but  I  reckon  'fore 
long  we'll  all  git  our  bellies  full  of  fighting." 

Then  noting  the  expression  on  some  of  the 
younger  men's  faces,  he  sought  to  cheer  them  by 
saying: 

"But  such  is  war !  Come,  lads,  let's  take  a  drink 
all!  round,  for  ther's  nothing  like  a  swig  of  red-eye 
to  keep  up  courage — here's  my  flask."  And  the 
volunteers  drank  to  the  liberty  of  Texas,  the  damna- 
tion of  Santa  Anna,  and  long  life  to  David  Crockett. 

A  message  of  the  Alamo's  condition  Travis  had 
meanwhile  dispatched  to  Colonel  Fannin,  who  com- 


The  Wolf  on  the  Fold  121 

manded  the  Goliad  garrison,  two  hundred  miles 
away.  Bonham  and  the  old  pirate  braved  the  dan- 
gers of  carrying  that  appeal.  In  response  to  Trav- 
is's  petition  for  help  Fannin  and  his  men  started  to 
his  relief,  but  were  destined  never  to  reach  Bexar, 
for  soon  after  leaving  Goliad  their  ammunition 
wagons  broke  down  and  their  artillery  could  not  be 
gotten  across  the  swollen  river,  hence  they  turned 
back.  Bonham  and  his  companion  had,  however, 
already  gone  on  ahead,  though  they  knew  to  return 
meant  most  probably  certain  death,  but  the  South 
Carolinian  declared : 

"I  will  report  to  Travis  or  die  in  the  attempt !" 
And  the  old  pirate,  who  had  scorned  death  in 
many  a  gale,  his  voice  vibrant  with  feeling,  ex- 
claimed with  a  burst  of  profanity : 

"Aye,  aye,  when  the  Alamo  needs  us,  we  ain't 
going  to  crawl1  'neath  the  hatches,  but  stand  by  the 
foremast  till  the  brig  goes  down !" 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  SPY 

A  crocus  light,  such  as  comes  in  the  sky  when  the 
chilly  winds  of  springtime  lull  toward  the  sunset 
hour,  shone  now  like  a  halo  of  glory  above  the 
Alamo. 

At  the  gate  of  the  presidio  stood  a  woman  plead- 
ing to  be  admitted;  but  the  sentinel^  a  man  named 
Rose,  a  Frenchman  from  Louisiana,  refused  to 
admit  her. 

Her  bright  eyes  shone  like  coals  of  fire  under  the 
mantilla  carelessly  thrown  over  her  head.  Excite- 
ment brought  to  her  face  a  flush  that  dyed  her  cheeks 
with  the  deep  red  glow  of  an  autumn  leaf.  Though 
with  a  voice  soft  as  witchery  she  coaxed  permission 
to  enter,  the  guard  was  inexorable.  When  it  comes 
to  a  woman  having  her  way,  however,  beauty  is  a 
great  abettor  to  wit,  and  instead  of  Nina's  being 
summarily  dismissed,  Rose,  attracted  by  her  appear- 
ance, allowed  her  to  talk.  Then  that  weapon  which 
but  few  females  can  not  use  to  advantage  came  to 
her  succor,  and  at  his  denial  great  tears  gathered  in 
her  eyes.  She  begged,  she  pleaded,  she  entreated; 
she  threw  herself  at  his  feet  and  besought  him  to  let 
her  carry  the  dying  message  of  a  noble  man  to  one 
who  was  to  him  like  unto  a  child. 


The  Spy  123 

T 

When  Rose  understood  her  Mexican  sufficiently  to 
comprehend  that  of  Father  Clement  she  was  talking, 
his  heart  began  to  weaken.  He  knew  the  Priest 
well.  Being  of  the  same  nationality,  they  had  often 
talked  together  of  France  and  the  wars  of  the  Little 
Corporal.  It  was  different  now,  his  decision  to 
refuse  her.  Sympathy  made  him  waver  and  rock, 
so  that  soon  he  drifted  from  his  moorings  and 
allowed  her  request. 

Nina,  being  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Travis, 
told  just  the  tale  that  would  have  delighted  Santa 
Anna  could  he  have  heard,  picturing  the  legions  of 
Mexicans  that  had  been  arriving  daily;  telling  how 
she  had  overheard  Colonel  Almonte  say  that  already 
they  numbered  several  thousand  strong.  In  a  melo- 
dramatic way  she  graphically  described  the  story 
hatched  by  Castrillo — of  how  the  drunken  soldiers, 
seeking  to  establish  Santa  Anna's  quarters  in  the 
House  of  the  Priest,  being  remonstrated  with  by 
Father  Clement,  had  shot  him,  not  knowing  he  was 
a  priest  of  the  Church.  She  told  how  it  was  his 
wish  and  earnest  prayer  that  he  might  see  Josefa 
to  give  her  his  blessing  ere  death  came  as  a  relief 
from  the  pain  torturing  his  frame. 

Nina  was  splendid  in  her  rdle. 

Of  all  who  heard,  none  doubted'  the  truth  of  her 
speech.  Josefa,  overwhelmed,  had  fainted  in 
Mother  Dickinson's  arms.  While  such  simple  reme- 
dies as  circumstances  allowed  were  being  used  to 
restore  her,  Nina  was  carefully  taking  in  the  condi- 
tion of  the  fort.  Her  large,  black  eyes,  flashing 
constantly,  magnetized  those  who  looked  at  her; 


124  TEe  Grito 

bright,  searching,  nothing  escaped  her  lynx-like 
glance.  She  noted  the  south  wall  of  the  church  was 
the  weak  point  in  the  fortification.  With  a  rapid 
survey  she  summed  up  the  garrison  almost  to  a  man. 

Mother  Dickinson  was  very  sorrowful  to  see  Jo- 
sefa set  forth,  for  the  girl  had  strangely  entwined 
herself  about  the  affections  of  the  big-hearted  fron- 
tierswoman.  Rapidly  the  two  crossed  the  court- 
yard; Nina,  moving  with  the  swift,  lithe  grace  of 
a  tiger,  urged  Josefa  to  hurry  lest  she  be  too  late; 
but  the  mental  anguish  of  the  senorita  was  such  that 
her  feet  seemed  to  drag  the  earth.  When  they  had 
left  the  gate  of  the  Alamo  a  safe  distance  behind 
them,  as  they  neared  some  cottonwood  bushes,  a 
figure  stepped  forth  from  the  shadow.  The  silver 
glow  from  a  new-born  moon  gleamed  down  on  his 
golden  epaulettes  and  scintillated  in  tiny  rays  from 
his  sword,  while  a  voice  that  Josefa  knew  only  too 
well  as  belonging  to  Castrillo,  breathed:  "Thank 
God  you  have  come,  my  own  precious  darling !"  And 
he  sought  to  embrace  her,  for  the  anxiety  of  waiting, 
with  the  relief  of  suspense  and  the  rapturous  delight 
of  seeing  her,  scattered  caution  to  the  wind. 

At  sight  of  him,  Josefa's  face  blanched ;  a  sicken- 
ing sensation  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  scream 
or  move  just  then,  for  she  was  stunned.  Swift  as 
lightning  flashed  the  truth  upon  her  mind  that  she 
had  been  duped,  that  Father  Clement  had  not  sent 
for  her,  that  she  had  been  cruelly  deceived  to  become 
the  prey  of  this  man.  Oh!  the  mockery  of  it  all; 
what  a  fool  she  had  been  ever  to  believe  the  words 
of  Nina;  and  a  laugh  broke  from  her  lips  that  cur- 


The  Spy  125 

died  the  love  in  Castrillo's  veins  to  hate,  transform- 
ing him  from  a  lover  to  a  satyr. 

"So  you  have  come,  my  chiquita,  as  soon  as  Nina 
told  you  I  was  here."  And  he  leered  at  her  with  a 
look  that  was  in  itself  an  insult.  "Thank  you,  Nina, 
you  are  a  most  excellent  messenger,  and  I  shall  re- 
ward you  as  you  deserve.  But  go  now,  for  this  little 
prairie  flower  is  too  modest  to  give  me  the  reception 
I  crave  while  another  is  near." 

As  soon  as  the  mestizo,  disappeared,  his  mood 
changed. 

"Come  now,"  he  said  in  a  wheedling  voice,  "are 
you  not  glad  to  see  me  ?  My  heart  leaps  at  the  sight 
of  you,  for  I  still  love  you,  Josefa,  as  passionately 
and  devotedly  as  the  night  on  the  plaza  when  you 
scorned  my  love.  My  darling,"  his  tone  was  all 
tenderness,  "you  are  angry  with  me  for  having  en- 
ticed you  out  of  the  Alamo;  for  having,  as  you 
doubtless  deem,  deceived  you.  But  how  was  I  to 
save  you  any  other  way?"  His  voice  quivered  with 
its  weight  of  entreaty.  "O  my  love!  if  you  only 
knew  the  torture  I  endured  at  the  risk  you  were 
running  being  shut  up  in  that  hole,  you  would  for- 
give me.  These  are  not  times  to  consider  methods, 
every  moment  counts;  you  need  the  protecting  care 
of  my  love.  Come  to  my  arms,  Josefa,  be  mine  and 
let  me  shield  you." 

Josefa  had  by  this  time  recovered  herself,  for  she 
was  not  of  the  stuff  that  melts  at  the  touch  of  adver- 
sity. 

"Stand  back!"  she  commanded,  "you  that  call 
yourself  a  man.  If  no  pity  moves  your  heart  for  me, 
what  of  your  wife?" 


126  The  Grito 

Castrillo  recoiled. 

"My  wife?"  he  repeated  incredulously. 

"Yes,  your  wife.  I  know  that  you  have  married 
the  sister  of  General  Santa  Anna." 

"It  is  a  mistake,"  declared  Castrillo.  "True,"  he 
added,  "I  have  paid  court  to  the  sister  of  Santa 
Anna,  simply  for  army  advancement;  but  you,  Jo- 
sefa,  you,  you  only  are  the  woman  I  love,  the  woman 
I  want,  the  woman  I  mean  to  wed." 

"That  you  will  never  do !"  she  vowed  so  defiantly 
that  Castrillo' s  passion  got  the  better  of  him. 

"Not  marry  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  are  mine 
now,  irrevocably  mine,  without  the  trouble  of  a 
priest's  blessing.  All  San  Antonio  will  know  you 
came  out  of  the  fort  at  my  bidding  with  the  mes- 
senger I  sent.  Durst  say  that  already  Nina  has 
spread  the  news.  Come,"  he  urged,  "or  you  will  give 
me  the  extra  pleasure  of  carrying  you.  He  stepped 
closer. 

"You  are  a  scoundrel!"  Josefa  cried;  "but  I  do 
not  fear  you,  for  God  will  take  care  of  me." 

A  hot  flush  of  shame  suffused  her  cheeks,  spread- 
ing down  her  throat,  for  her  bodice  had  been  un- 
loosened when  she  fainted  in  the  Alamo,  and  showed 
how  her  heart  swelled  with  indignation. 

"By  Jove,  you  are  splendid  when  you  look  like 
that!"  said  Castrillo,  who,  like  a  beast  that  had 
caught  its  prey,  seemed  to  gloat  over,  the  promised 
feast,  as  he  added : 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  another  piece  of  flesh  and 
blood  like  you  in  all  Mexico,  and  I  mean  to  have  you, 
spit-fire  that  you  are,  for  my  very  own." 


The  Spy  127 

\ 

But  the  girl  did  not  hear  his  last  words,  for  she 
had  broken  into  a  run  toward  the  fort.  She  was 
fleet  of  foot  and  terror  lent  wings  to  her  speed. 
Before  Castrillo  scarcely  realized  she  had  started, 
quite  a  space  divided  them.  Then,  while  a  mocking 
laugh  sounded  on  the  air,  he  pursued,  entering  the 
chase  asl  one  who,  certain  of  victory,  makes  believe 
he  is  really  in  earnest,  but  looks  on  it  in  the  light  of 
play. 

Just  then  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  floated  on 
the  stillness  of  the  plain. 

"What  devils  are  these,  racing  at  night?"  he  said 
to  himself,  and  swore  unsparingly. 

Closer  and  closer  the  sound  came  of  hurrying 
steed — not  one,  but  many.  It  was  Bonham  and  the 
old  pirate  returning  from  Goliad,  and  another  rider, 
evidently  an  Americano,  was  with  them.  In  fact  he 
seemed  to  be  leading  them.  His  horse's  hoofs  hardly 
touched  the  ground  as  he  came  on  in  a  rushing 
gallop.  The  poor  animal  was  lathered  in  sweat  and 
blood  from  the  cruel  spurs  necessity  compelled  to 
be  used.  The  old  pirate  and  Bonham,  though  riding 
like  the  wind,  were  several  paces  behind ;  and  press- 
ing them  sore  was  a  squad  of  Mexican  cavalry. 
This  Castrillo  could  distinguish  by  their  uniforms, 
so  that  he  now  strained  every  muscle  in  desperate 
pursuit  of  Josefa. 

Already  the  garrison  of  the  Alamo  had  spied 
them. 

Crockett  called  to  the  bee-hunter : 

"Bless  my  Betsy!  if  one  of  them  ain't  the  old 
pirate." 


128  The  Grito 

Then  other  voices  exclaimed  in  unison : 

"It's  Bonham !  It's  the  pirate !  It's  them !  Hur- 
rah for  their  grit !" 

"Three  cheers  for  the  pirate !" 

"Three  cheers  for  Bonham !" 

"If  they  never  reach  the  Alamo,"  said  Bowie,  "it 
will  tell  'em  we  appreciated  their  effort." 

"But,"  remonstrated  Crockett,  whose  habit  was  to 
judge  keenly  and  act  quickly,  "them  damn  Mexi- 
cans are  trying  to  head  'em  off  from  the  gate;  and 
there's  a  woman,  a  gal  a-running  too;  come  quick, 
boys,  let's  to  their  rescue!" 

And  suiting  his  action  to  his  words,  David  Crock- 
ett, followed  by  a  body  of  men,  sallied  out  of  the  fort. 
As  he  emerged,  a  piercing  scream,  like  the  wail  of  a 
broken  heart,  reached  his  ears.  It  came  from  Josefa, 
who,  when  only  a  few  yards  separated  her  from  the 
gate  of  the  Alamo,  had  been  overtaken  and  violently 
seized  by  Castrillo. 

"Help,  help!"  she  shrieked. 

And  the  Tennesseean,  responded,  recognizing  the 
supplicant  as  the  girl  who  had  made  the  flag.  He 
who  could  whip  his  weight  in  wildcats  now  pounded 
Castrillo  as  only  a  cur  would  have  deserved.  Josefa, 
meanwhile,  too  exhausted  to  move,  sunk  to  the 
ground. 

The  moon  lit  up  the  scene  with  a  bluish  light,  so 
that  though  all  the  faces  were  plainly  recognizable, 
yet  the  figures  moving  in  the  skirmish  looked  as 
weird  as  phantoms. 

The  unknown  rider  was  the  first  to  reach  the  girl. 
Crockett  had  never  seen  him  before,  and  occupied  as 


The  Spy  129 

he  was  in  battling  with  Castrillo,  did  not  notice  him 
specially,  save  that  he  was  an  American,  young  and 
well-built.  With  that  supernatural  strength  that  oft- 
times  asserts  itself  in  time  of  stress,  the  stranger 
leaned  from  his  saddle  and  clutched  the  senorita, 
then  his  eyes  flashing  and  setting  his  teeth  hard,  he 
dug  his  long  rowels  deep  into  his  horse's  sides  and 
rushed  on  toward  the  fort,  like  a  Roman  might  have 
borne  off  a  Sabine. 

Jose  fa,  finding  herself  plucked  from  the  prairie 
like  a  flower,  nestled  close  to  her  deliverer ;  there  was 
something  possessive  in  his  clasp — a  tenderness  with 
which  the  strong  arm  went  around  her  slender  waist. 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face,  trying  to  breathe  her 
thanks — and  then  her  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder, 
for  recognition  of  him  made  her  swoon. 

It  was  Charles  Dabney. 

The  shout  that  greeted  the  Virginian  as  he  rode 
in  the  Alamo  with  Josefa  was  hushed  as  the  little 
garrison  beheld  several  men  bringing  one  wounded 
within  the  fort. 

"Is  it  Colonel  Crockett?"  asked  Josefa,  who, 
though  she  was  recovering,  still  seemed  dazed. 

"Naw,  honey,  here's  Davy,  with  only  a  scratch 
to  mar  his  beauty ;  but  it  don't  matter  so  long  as  I 
helped  to  save  you."  And  with  his  deer-skin  sleeve 
Crockett  wiped  the  blood  trickling  from  the  sabre 
slash  Castrillo  had  left  on  his  leathery,  wrinkled 
forehead. 

"I  see  Colonel  Bonham,"  exclaimed  Mother  Dick- 
inson, "but  where  is  the  old  pirate?" 


130  The  Grito 

"Yonder,"  and  a  volunteer  nodded  to  where  the 
men  had  laid  him. 

"Is  he  suffering  much  pain?"  she  asked  sympa- 
thetically. 

"No,  madam,  but  the  old  pirate  has  gone  on  his 
last  voyage." 

"Let  us  hope  to  the  haven  of  rest,"  added  Travis, 
who  had  drawn  near,  "for  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
that  when  a  man  dies  fighting  he  receives  a  soldier's 
reward,  as  peace  follows  strife." 

It  was  hard  for  Josefa  to  realize  Dabney  was  again 
with  her.  It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true ;  to  have  him 
so  near;  to  feel  the  sympathy  of  his  comfort — and 
yet  a  terrible  foreboding  that  his  return  might  mean 
his  death  crept  into  her  heart,  turning  her  joy  to 
pain.  His  manner  to  her  was  tenderness  itself.  He 
realized  the  siege  of  the  Alamo  would  be  as  great 
as  any  history  had  ever  witnessed,  and  the  desire  to 
see  it  through  burned  in  his  heart  like  a  spark  from 
the  altar  of  patriotism.  This  longing  to  fight  for 
Texas,  to  be  a  participant  in  her  battles,  to  give,  if 
need  be,  his  life  to  the  cause  of  liberty,  had  made 
Dabney  leave  Austin  and  the  other  commissioners, 
when  at  New  Orleans  he  had  heard  from  a  vessel 
from  Vera  Cruz  of  Santa  Anna's  purpose  to  imme- 
diately invade  Texas ;  and  so  it  happened  that,  near- 
ing  San  Antonio,  he  had  fallen  in  with  Bonham. 
Dabney  had  not  counted  on  the  contingency  of  Jo- 
se fa's  being  in  peril.  But  since  Castrillo  had  so 
boldly  tried  to  gain  possession  of  her,  the  Virginian 
could  appreciate  the  Priest's  wisdom  in  placing  her 
in  the  Alamo  under  Mother  Dickinson's  care.  The 


The  Spy  131 

thought  of  what  would  happen  to  her  if  the  fort  fell 
or  if  he  were  killed  in  helping  to  defend  it  made  him 
shiver  in  agony,  made  him  desperate;  and  yet  he 
tried  to  hide  his  fears  from  Josefa,  who,  child-like, 
had  begun  to  believe  that  since  he,  her  hero,  had 
come,  all  would  be  well.  Her  despondency  was  van- 
ishing; her  face  was  beginning  to  resume  its  fresh 
beauty  as  love  dominated  her  expression. 

Her  trusting  faith  touched  Dabney  deeply,  endu- 
ing him  with  renewed  strength,  for  as  the  soldiers 
talked  of  the  probability  of  the  Mexicans  early 
storming  the  fort,  she  had  snuggled  up  close  beside 
him,  and  slipping  her  tremulous  little  brown  hand 
in  his,  whispered : 

"Carlos,  you  will  take  care  of  me,  you  are  not 
afraid?" 

And  though  the  reply  rose  to  his  lips  that  his  only 
fear  was  for  her,  he  did  not  utter  it — but  simply 
stooped  and  kissed  the  black  hair  that  shone  with 
metallic  lustre  against  her  pale  forehead. 

The  sure  realization  of  doom,  though,  unless  aid 
soon  reached  them,  was  settling  down  to  a  grim  cer- 
tainty within  every  breast.  Travis,  daily  expecting 
the  Goliad  garrison  to  come  to  his  relief,  tried  to 
encourage  his  men ;  albeit  now  they  were  beginning 
to  fear  a  foe  within  the  camp  as  terrible  as  the  besieg- 
ing Mexicans.  It  was  starvation.  Their  situation 
was  growing  desperate,  and  so  the  commander  de- 
cided to  send  another  appeal  for  succor.  It  was  then 
he  wrote  the  letter  that  has  come  down  to  posterity 
as  a  priceless  legacy,  because  the  valor  of  the  senti- 
ment the  author  sustained : 


132  The  Grito 

COMMANDANCY  OF  THE  ALAMO,  BEJAR,  1836. 

To  the  People  of  Texas  and  all  Americans  in  the  world, 

Fellow  citizens  &  Compatriots — I  am  besieged,  by  a  thou- 
sand or  more  of  Mexicans  under  Santa  Anna.  The  enemy  has 
demanded  a  surrender  at  discretion,  otherwise  the  garrison  are 
to  be  put  to  the  sword,  if  the  fort  is  taken — I  have  answered 
the  demand  with  a  cannon  shot,  &  our  flag  still  waves  proudly 
from  the  walls — I  shall  never  surrender  or  retreat.  Then  I 
call  on  you  in  the  name  of  Liberty,  of  patriotism,  &  everything 
dear  to  the  American  character,  to  come  to  our  aid,  with  all 
despatch — The  enemy  is  receiving  reinforcements  daily  and 
will  no  doubt  increase  to  three  or  four  thousand  in  a  few  days. 
If  this  call  is  neglected,  I  am  determined  to  sustain  myself  as 
long  as  possible  &  die  like  a  soldier  who  never  forgets  what 
is  due  to  his  own  honor  &  that  of  his  country — VICTORY  or 
DEATH. 

WILLIAM  BARRET  TRAVIS, 

Lt.-Col  Comdt. 

Charles  Dabney  was  the  man  who  volunteered  to 
take  that  letter  to  Sam  Houston,  who  was  at  Wash- 
ington on  the  Brazos. 

"He's  gwine  to  lose  his  scalp  ter  a  sartainty," 
predicted  a  frontiersman  as  he  watched  the  Vir- 
ginian go  out  of  the  gate. 

"The  Mexicans  will  hack  him  to  pieces  before 
they'll  let  him  through  their  lines,"  prophesied  Cap- 
tain Dickinson.  But  he  was  wrong,  for  Santa  Anna, 
hoping  that  Travis  had  an  idea  of  coming  out  of  the 
fort,  had  issued  instructions  that  any  scouts  from 
the  Alamo  were  to  pass  his  picket-guard  unhailed; 
for  the  crafty  despot  preferred  fighting  the  Texans 
on  the  plains  to  storming  the  presidio.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  Dabney  did  not  know  this,  lest  it 
diminish  his  daring.  He  felt  that  everything  de- 
pended on  that  message  being  carried.  He  felt  that 


The  Spy  133 

the  man  who  took  it  would  have  no  further  need  for 
fame.  He  felt,  and  this  was  the  strongest  reason, 
that  it  offered  the  only  possibility  of  saving  Josefa — 
whom  he  loved  more  than  country,  more  than  gloryy 
more  than  himself.  And  so  he  set  forth,  calmly  and 
fearlessly,  having  mastered  himself  in  his  thought 
for  others. 

The  hours  dragged  by  drear  and  desolate  after  he 
left.  Josefa,  miserable  with  an  indescribable  loneli- 
ness, counted  the  minutes  in  watching  for  Dabney's 
return.  She  comforted  herself  by  remembering  that 
Bonham  had  returned  from  Goliad — and  by  believ- 
ing that  Carlos  Daubigney,  her  lover,  her  hero, 
could  do  what  other  men  did,  yea,  excel  them. 

The  senorita  spent  most  of  her  time  in  the  little 
convent-room  set  aside  for  their  use.  With  Mother 
Dickinson,  the  little  daughter,  and  old  Clinch  she 
did  not  feel  the  brooding  melancholy  that  hung  over 
the  fort ;  the  heavy,  painful  atmosphere  of  imminent 
danger  that  was  beginning  to  tell  on  the  soldiers' 
spirits.  Even  David  Crockett,  who  had  done  so 
much  to  keep  the  Texans  cheerful  by  preventing 
them  from  dwelling  on  the  fatality  of  their  posi- 
tion, was  beginning  to  feel  that  hope  was  useless, 
was  futile,  was  vain.  Looking  at  the  walls  of  the 
Alamo,  he  said: 

"Santy  Anny  has  got  us  shut  up  like  birds  in  a 
cage,  and  I  ain't  used  to  being  hemmed  in ;  I  think 
we  had  better  march  out  and  die  in  the  open."  Then 
his  joke- telling  humor  seized  him  so  irrepressibly 
that  a  grim  smile  lit  up  his  face  as  he  continued : 


134  The  Grito 

"Boys,  I've  got  a  tale  to  tell  you,  a  tale  that  will 
illustrate  our  condition.  It  happened  once  a  man 
called  his  son  and  said,  'Jim,  go  drive  them  pigs  out 
of  my  gyarden/  and  Jim  went,  but  his  legs  wa'n't 
long  'nough  to  chase  them  pigs  out.  When  he  come 
back  his  pap  said,  'Jim,  you  didn't  drive  them  pigs 
out/  'No/  answered  the  son,  'I  couldn't;  they  was 
too  many  for  me,  but  I  set  the  dawgs  a-barking.' 
Well,  fellows,  we  are  like  Jim — maybe  our  strength, 
like  his  legs,  won't  be  long  enough  to  hold  out 
against  these  damn  hogs  whar  want  everything ;  but 
by  our  example  we  can  set  the  dogs  of  war  to  bark- 
ing so  they  will  run  every  last  Greaser  out  of  this 
here  land  that's  beautiful  as  a  garden." 

While  Crockett  spoke,  his  words  reverberated 
through  the  old  monastery  like  a  message  from 
some  prophet  whose  insight  into  the  future  was  most 
true. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OVER  THE  LINE  ' 

When  the  sortie  was  over,  and  Josefa,  with  her 
rescuers,  had  disappeared  within  the  Alamo,  Cas- 
trillo  glared  after  them  like  a  mad  beast.  He  felt 
like  a  gambler  who  had  staked  all  and  lost.  The  cup 
had  been  snatched  from  his  grasp  when  he  thought 
to  satisfy  the  thirst  that  had  long  been  consuming 
him.  His  heart  ached  bitterly.  Disappointed  pas- 
sion, jealousy,  and  a  desire  for  revenge  burned  in 
his  breast.  Hatred  of  the  Americanos  had  cankered 
until  it  poisoned  his  soul,  so  that  his  humor  was  mur- 
derous. 

Passing  the  Mexican  tents  pitched  in  the  Military 
Plaza,  he  entered  the  House  of  the  Priest,  to  find 
Santa  Anna  had  called  a  council  of  war. 

"Come  in,  Castrillo.  Where  have  you  been  ?  Re- 
connoitering,  eh  ?"  asked  a  volley  of  voices. 

"Where  is  the  woman?'*  inquired  Santa  Anna, 
meaning  Nina. 

"You  can  count  on  Castrillo's  always  being  mixed 
up  with  some  woman/'  one  of  the  officers  said  aside, 
as  he  winked  his  eye  in  an  insinuating  way. 

"I  thought  to  find  her  here,  General ;  she  preceded 
me,"  was  Castrillo's  reply. 


136  The  Grito 

"If  you  are  speaking  of  a  mestizo,  she  has  been 
waiting  here  for  an  hour  or  more,"  spoke  up  Al- 
monte. 

Nina  was  then  summoned  and  told  all  she  knew. 

"And  the  fools  not  only  let  you  enter  the  fort,  but 
come  out,  did  they?"  queried  Santa  Anna. 

She  bowed  in  acquiescence. 

"They  are  mere  children  at  war !"  he  sneered  con- 
temptuously; "malditos  seitn,  curse  them!"  Then 
addressing  Castrillo  he  said,  "And  where  is  the  other 
woman  ?" 

"Another?"  and  the  men  laughed  uproariously. 

"I  fail  to  perceive  the  cause  of  your  mirth," 
snapped  Castrillo,  whose  feelings  were  in  a  state  of 
ferment. 

"Usually  sir,"  whispered  Father  Clement  close 
in  his  ear,  for  unobserved  the  Priest  had  taken  his 
stand  behind  Castrillo's  chair,  "the  Devil  plans  more 
successfully,  for  despite  the  woman's  assistance,  the 
fruit  remains  forbidden." 

Castrillo  smothered  an  oath  as  he  cleared  his 
throat  and  spat  upon  the  floor.  Then  biting  his 
moustache,  he  turned  to  Santa  Anna,  saying : 

"General,  as  I  understand  it,  this  is  a  council  of 
war.  I  will  therefore,  with  your  permission,  request 
the  withdrawal  of  this  priest,  as  reasons  for  privacy 
demand  it." 

The  expression  of  intense  hatred  that  shone  on  the 
Jesuit's  countenance  was  only  matched  by  the  scorn 
in  his  voice  as,  shaking  a  sinewy  forefinger  in  Cas- 
trillo's face,  he  hissed : 


Over  the  Line  13? 

"Yes,  you  cursed  debauchee,  not  reasons  for 
privacy  but  private  reasons  why  you  demand  it." 
And  with  an  air  of  contempt  that  only  a  Frenchman 
can  assume,  Father  Clement  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  was  gone. 

The  discussions  of  the  generals  now  became  most 
animated.  The  delight  manifested  by  Santa  Anna  as 
he  listened  to  Nina  lit  up  his  ugly  face  with  antici- 
pation such  as  shines  in  a  wolfs  eye  at  the  smell  of 
blood. 

"Castrillo,"  he  said,  "you  have  played  a  difficult 
r61e  well ;  you  are  the  man  who  has  divined  what's 
necessary  to  know ;  I  title  you  chief  of  spies." 

Whereupon,  taking  advantage  of  the  favor  he  had 
gained,  Castrillo  counseled  Santa  Anna  not  to  imme- 
diately attack  the  Alamo.  A  delay  would  afford  time 
in  which  to  devise  some  other  means  to  rescue  Josefa, 
whom  he  loved  more  passionately  than  ever  before 
for  having  been  thwarted  in  possessing  her.  The 
idea  of  storming  the  Alamo  sent  shivers  through  his 
frame.  It  was  unbearable!  And  he  could  not  en- 
dure hearing  it  discussed,  having  just  parted  with 
Josefa.  The  thought  of  a  stray  bullet  piercing  her 
lovely  breast  froze  the  blood  in  Castrillo's  veins. 
The  hope  of  yet  winning  the  girl  flickered  still  in  his 
heart.  His  wish  to  save  Josefa  was  purely  selfish. 
He  desired  her  for  his  own  pleasure  rather  than  her 
welfare.  It  would  be  sweet  to  him  to  have  her  live — 
and  be  his. 

Surely,  surely,  Santa  Anna  argued,  with  his  army, 
now  five  thousand  strong,  he  could  annihilate  a  gar- 
rison of  less  than  two  hundred. 


138  The  Grito 

"Five  thousand  to  whip  ten  score !"  sneered  Cas- 
trillo  under  his  breath;  "Santa  Anna  hardly  arro- 
gates to  himself  military  ability."  Aloud  he  said: 
"General,  we  men  who  have  intimate  knowledge  of 
these  Texan  hounds  know  they  are  hard  to  lick. 
They  fight  as  freemen  and  not  like  our  convict  re- 
cruits. I  again  advise  delay." 

But)  Santa  Anna's  exorbitant  opinion  of  his  own 
judgment  scoffed  at  the  idea;  his  arrogancy  asserted 
itself,  hard,  aggressive,  malignant. 

"No,  by  the  Mother  of  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "we 
will  drown  rebellion  in  blood.  For  eight  days  we 
have  been  here  practically  doing  nothing  but  giving 
these  rebels  time  to  eat  up  their  victuals  and  repent 
of  their  folly,  which  they  seem  not  to  have  done.  I 
wish  this  affair  soon  settled  so  that  I  may  return  to 
Mexico.  Conditions  there  are  not  as  quiet  as  I 
might  wish.  I  have  sent  orders  for  Urrea  to  march 
against  the  upstarts  garrisoned  at  Goliad." 

"Urrea !"  exclaimed  Castrillo. 

"Yes,  Ramon  Urrea ;  he  is  familiar  with  this  terri- 
tory." 

"Cierto!"  exclaimed  Castrillo,  casting  a  glance 
at  Nina,  "he  knows  this  country  as  a  lover  knows  the 
lines  of  his  mistress's  face." 

"And,"  continued  Santa  Anna,  "he  will  make 
short  work  of  any  nasty  jobs.  By  the  by,  did  you 
succeed  in  getting  his  niece  out  of  the  Alamo?" 

"No,  she  started  and  then  turned  back." 

"Well,  like  other  fools  she  may  pay  for  her  folly." 

"I  fear  so."  Castrillo' s  voice  was  bitter  and  his 
eyes  gleamed  like  steel. 


Over  the  Line  139 

Santa  Anna  then  disclosed  to  his  generals  his  de- 
termination to  forthwith  storm  the  fort ;  and  no  ar- 
gument could  prevail  to  alter  his  decision. 

The  Mexicans  accordingly  began  a  slow  bombard- 
ment. Travis  cautioned  his  men  not  to  waste  their 
ammunition  in  replying,  advice  which  Davy  Crock- 
ett seconded,  saying  : 

"  'Tain't  no  use  to  kick  till  the  spur  begins  to 
hurt." 

"But,"  said  Bowie,  "I  Aspect  they'll  think  we  are 
all  asleep  over  here." 

"Well,"  answered  Travis,  "the  boys  can  fire  one 
shot  to  show  we  are  not  napping." 

Strange  to  relate,  that  shot  struck  the  House  of 
the  Priest. 

"Pretty  good!"  exclaimed  Davy  Crockett  when 
he  heard  of  it.  "We'll  let  old  Santy  know  in  the 
beginning  that  when  we  shoot,  we  shoot  to  hit. 
Their  popping  away  reminds  me  of  Fourth  of  July 
doings  back  in  the  States." 

"I  hope,"  interposed  Bonham,  "it  signifies  the 
establishment  of  our  independence;  but,  bless  my 
soul !  what  are  the  Mexicans  doing  now  ?" 

"Planting  batteries,"  observed  Travis,  whose  look 
was  stern  and  implacable.  "Boys,"  he  cried,  "don't 
let  this  vex  you  into  wasting  good  powder;  just 
wait,  and  when  the  time  comes,  make  'em  dance." 

Soon  Captain  Dickinson  hurried  into  the  old 
church,  saying: 

"The  Mexicans  have  planted  a  battery  between 
the  Alamo  and  the  bridge  over  the  San  Tone  river; 


140  The  Grito 

another  on  the  Gonzales  road ;  a  third  north  of  the 
fort." 

"Which  means,"  interrupted  Bowie,  "they  are 
aiming  not  only  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  aid 
reaching  us,  but  are  trying  to  cut  off  our  water 
supply." 

Evening  was  fast  closing  in,  gray  and  heavy  laden. 
Night  soon  came  on — a  dark,  black  night,  without 
a  star  of  hope. 

No  relief  had  come  to  the  Alamo. 

That  obstinate  and  determined  valor  that  perishes 
but  yields  not,  alone  sustained  the  little  garrison. 
The  anxiety  was  telling  on  their  nerves ;  the  suspense 
became  agonizing  as  it  was  prolonged;  they  longed 
for  the  fray  to  begin;  albeit  not  one  deceived  himself 
as  to  how  it  would  end. 

When  the  sable  curtains  were  drawn  aside  and 
rosy  and  pink  the  new-born  moon  stood  upon  the 
threshold  of  another  day,  the  Mexicans,  growing 
bolder,  planted  a  battery  within  gunshot  distance 
giving  the  opportunity  for  markmanship  for  which 
the  wily  Texans  had  waited.  They  soon  began  a 
brisk  cannonading  against  the  side  of  the  church 
where  David  Crockett  was  asleep,  causing  him  to 
stop  snoring,  mount  the  rampart,  and  begin  shoot- 
ing. The  enemy's  cannon  was  charged  again  and 
a  Mexican  stepped  forth  to  touch  her  off ;  before  he 
could  do  so,  David's  "Betsy"  clicked  and  the  man 
tottered  to  the  ground.  Another  soldier  tried,  and 
the  Tennesseean's  deadly  marksmanship  again 
proved  true,  and  the  Mexican  fell  by  his  comrade, 
the  blood  spurting  from  his  breast.  Still  a  third 


Over  the  Line  141 

attempt  was  made,  and  the  Greaser  bit  the  dust ;  so 
after  Crockett's  unerring  aim  had  laid  five  Mexicans 
low,  no  further  attempt  was  made  to  fire  their  gun. 

"It  will  teach  'em  a  lesson,"  drawled  the  bear- 
hunter,  smilingly  smothering  a  yawn,,  "to  be  more 
keerful  'bout  disturbing  ole  Davy's  morning  nap — 
for  back  in  Tennessee  thar's  plenty  to  tell  what  a  bead 
on  my  Betsy  means." 

He  slapped  the  juggler  on  the  back,  adding:  "If 
sights  like  this  sicken  your  stomach,  come  join  me  in 
my  bitters,  and  whet  up  yer  appetite  for  breakfast." 

The  elements  seemed  in  accord  with  the  storm  of 
war  that  was  about  to  burst  upon  the  fort;  for  the 
sky  was  threatening,  the  air  cool  and  bleak,  while  the 
wind  whistled  that  doleful  half-croon,  half-growl 
that  every  Texan  knows  means  a  Norther. 

"If  this  weather  keeps  on,"  said  Bonham,  shiver- 
ing, "Santa  Anna's  torrid  fervor  will  be  sweating 
icicles." 

That  Saturday,  March  the  fifth,  David  Crockett 
wrote  in  his  diary : 

"Pop !  pop !  pop !  bom !  bom !  bom !  No  time  for 
memorandums  now.  GO  AHEAD.  LIBERTY 
and  INDEPENDENCE  FOREVER!" 

All  day,  shot  had  been  dropping  viciously  within 
the  fort's  yard.  Travis  knew  the  slow  bombard- 
ment heralded  the  storming  of  the  Alamo,  for  the 
siege  had  lasted  now  nine  days.  When  night 
approached,  bringing  no  tidings  of  Fannin,  no  relief 
from  Houston,  the  intrepid  Travis,  fully  realizing 
all  hope  was  lost,  now  called  his  men  before  him,  for 
the  brave  commander  wished  to  define,  to  explain 


142  The  Grito 

his  motives,  his  position,  to  every  soldier  who  was 
to  fight. 

"Garrison  of  the  Alamo,"  he  said,  "our  fate  is 
sealed.  Within  a  few  hours  we  shall  be  in  eternity. 
I  had  hoped  victory  would  be  ours;  but  that  is 
impossible,  since  no  help  has  come  to  our  assistance. 
We  will  not,  however,  censure,  as  we  know  not  what 
cause  prevented  their  arrival,  for  if  our  friends  knew 
of  our  perilous  condition  they  would  try  to  save  us. 
As  it  is,  we  must  die.  I  am  not  here  to  command 
any  one,  for  heroism  is  the  result  of  free  will." 

And  stooping  down  he  drew  with  his  sword's 
point  a  line  on  the  ground,  as  he  added : 

"Now  is  the  opportunity  given  for  him  who 
wishes  to  die  a  hero  to  cross  this  line." 

The  first  to  step  over  was  Tapley  Holland,  the 
quartermaster,  saying : 

"I  am  ready  to  die  for  my  country." 

Next,  with  a  yell,  "Be  sure  you  are  right,  then 
go  ahead,"  Davy  Crockett  leaped  across. 

A  feeble  voice  was  now  heard  calling  from  the 
sick-room : 

"I  can't  git  thar  myself,  so  some  of  you  boys  lift 
me  over."  And  James  Bowie's  cot  was  accordingly 
borne  across  the  hero  line. 

One  by  one  the  garrison  stepped  over.  By  the 
pale,  flickering  light  within  the  old  church  each  man 
appeared  taller  as  he  did  so,  until  the  little  band 
seemed  transformed  into  a  group  of  giants.  Only 
one  man,  Rose,  the  Frenchman,  remained  on  the 
other  side.  "I  am  not  prepared  to  die,"  he  said,  as 


Over  the  Line  143 

if  excusing  himself,  "and  shall  not  do  so  if  I  can  help 
it." 

At  his  words  a  contemptuous  look  gathered  on 
many  a  sunburnt  brow,  but  no  one  reproached  him, 
for  Travis,  seeing  how  his  men  rallied  around  him, 
had  begun  to  speak  again. 

"Your  action  nerves  me  to  greater  courage,"  he 
said.  "We  will  do  and  die.  Had  you  preferred  to 
surrender,  the  Mexicans  would  have  shot  you  like 
dogs.  Had  I  attempted  to  lead  you  from  the 
Alamo,  it  would  have  been  simply  leading  you  to 
butchery;  as  it  is,  we  will  put  the  price  of  victory 
high." 

"Let  us  make  the  Alamo  the  altar  of  Texas*  free- 
dom. 

"When  the  Mexicans  storm  the  fort,  let  us  kill 
them  as  they  come!  Kill  them  as  they  scale  the 
walls!  Kill  them  as  they  leap  within!  Kill  them 
as  they  raise  their  weapons !  Kill  them  as  they  kill 
our  companions!  And  kill  them  as  they  kill  us! 
Then  what  matters  that  our  lives  are  lost  if  Texas 
be  baptized  with  blood  into  the  creed  of  liberty? 
Posterity  will  cherish  our  sacrifice  till  all  history 
shall  be  erased  and  all  noble  deeds  shall  be  for- 
gotten." 

"Amen!  said  Bonham;  while  the  little  garrison, 
too  overwhelmed  to  cheer,  silently  scattered  to  their 
posts. 

Crockett  and  his  friend,  the  juggler,  moving  off 
together,  spied  a  man  mounting  the  wall.  Seeing 
it  was  Rose,  Davy  called  out : 


144  The  Grito 

"If  you  couldn't  be  a  hero,  don't  be  a  traitor!" 

Rose  put  his  hand  over  his  mouth  in  token  that 
he  heard,  and  then  leaped. 

Looking  after  him,  the  Tennesseean  remarked : 

"That  man  said  he  wa'n't  prepared  to  die,  like 
who  of  us  ever  is.  When  I  was  a  lad  and  was  a 
hired  boy  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia,  I  knew  of  an 
old  Dutchman  who  used  to  go  crazy,  imagining  him- 
self the  Lord  Almighty.  So  he  built  a  throne  on 
which  he'd  sit  in  judgment.  One  day  I  heard  him 
trying  himself. 

"  'Now  ich  try  meinself.'  said  he. 
'  'Vat  hash  you  bin  doin'  in  dis  lower  vorld  ?' 

"Ah !  mein  Got,  ich  does  not  know/ 
f  'Veil,  Heinrich  Snyder,  ain't  you  got  a  mill  ?' 
r  'Yes,  Lord,  ich  has/ 

"  'Veil,  Heinrich,  didn't  you  never  take  too  much 
toll?' 

'  'Mein  Got,  yes,  ven  der  vater  vash  low  and  mein 
stone  was  dull,  ich  has  taken  a  leetle  too  much/ 

"  'But  Heinrich  Snyder,  vat  did  you  do  vid  dat 
toll?' 

"  'Lord,  ich  gives  it  to  der  poor/ 

"  'Veil,  Heinrich,  you  can  go  to  de  right  vid  my 
sheep,  but  'tis  a  tight  squeeze/ 

"And,"  added  David,  "I  know  I  ain't  lived  fault- 
less, and  like  that  old  Dutchman,  if  I  ever  get  to 
heaven,  it  will  be  a  tight  squeeze;  for  if  my  own 
righteousness  is  to  take  me  I'll  never  git  thar  at  all ; 
but  God  who  takes  care  of  the  sparrows  ain't  above 
looking  after  a  critter  like  me." 


Over  the  Line  145 

The  bear-hunter  now  began  oiling  up  "Betsy." 
Looking  lovingly  at  the  rifle,  he  said : 

"For  just  one  crack  at  that  devil  Santy  Anny,  I 
would  bargain  to  break  my  'Betsy'  and  never  pull 
trigger  again."  Then  with  a  glance  at  the  juggler, 
he  added :  "My  name  is  not  Crockett  if  I  wouldn't 
get  glory  enough  from  it  to  appease  my  stomach  for 
the  rest  of  my  life." 

Just  as  the  faint  light  began  to  break  in  the  east, 
a  loud,  long  bugle  note  from  the  Mexican  cavalry 
announced  the  day  long  waited  for  had  dawned. 
The  bloodthirsty  "Duquelo,"  that  martial  air  that 
meant  no  quarter,  floating  on  the  stillness  of  the 
Bexar  plain,  rallied  not  only  the  Mexicans,  but  noti- 
fied the  Texans  as  well. 

Within  the  Alamo  there  was  much  hurrying. 
Every  man  feeling  loyal  to  liberty's  cause  was  soon 
at  his  post,  ready  to  die  in  the  performance  of  duty. 
The  approach  of  danger  nerved  their  soldier  hearts ; 
it  was  a  superb  show  of  zeal.  Travis  gave  his  orders 
like  one  born  to  command,  cautioning  his  men  not 
to  waste  their  ammunition.  Independent  and  undis- 
ciplined as  the  garrison  was,  they  recognized  he  was 
right  and  obeyed ;  though  like  war  horses  chafing  the 
bit  on  the  verge  of  battle,  they  longed  for  the  fight 
to  begin. 

Santa  Anna  was  mustering  his  forces  for  immedi- 
ate attack.  A  cordon  of  Mexican  cavalry  at  a  wide 
range  encircled  the  Almo,  serving  the  purpose  of 
making  it  impossible  for  either  the  Texans  to  retreat 
or  to  receive  help,  and  at  the  same  time  warding 


146  The  Grito 

against  the  probability  of  Santa  Anna's  foot  soldiers 
running  away. 

A  regiment  of  his  infantry  advanced  at  double- 
quick  ;  the  guns  of  the  Alamo  flashed  fire,  sweeping 
them  as  dry  leaves  are  swept  by  an  autumn  wind. 
The  air  was  filled  with  bursting  shells.  The  dead 
lay  so  thick  the  living  trod  upon  them. 

"They  are  devil  marksmen,"  was  Santa  Anna's 
comment. 

By  entreaties,  promises  and  threats,  the  Dictator 
urged  on  his  men,  for  storming  the  Alamo  was  no 
easy  task,  as  from  every  porthole  hummed  bullets 
like  mad  wasps.  The  Mexican  convict  recruits  had 
been  put  in  front  and  paved  the  way  with  their  dead 
bodies.  Now  a  brigade  of  the  flower  of  the  army 
made  a  headlong  rush  for  the  low  wall  surrounding 
the  presidio ;  but  the  shells  of  the  Texans  tore  them 
to  pieces  and  the  shattered  remnant  fell  back  in  great 
confusion. 

Santa  Annas'  ambition  was  costing  the  Mexican 
nation  much  blood. 

Meanwhile  an  officer  in  a  green  uniform,  heavily 
trimmed  with  gold  lace,  rode  recklessly  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  cavalry  under  his  command.  This  was 
Castrillo,  who  had  withdrawn  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  scene.  He  was  desperate.  With  him  the 
soldiers  were  not  firing  at  the  Alamo,  but  Josefa. 
The  crisis  grew  more  acute  as  the  minutes  dragged 
on.  Castrillo  felt  crazed ;  his  thoughts  were  beyond 
all  human  endurance ;  he  longed  to  die.  Before  his 
vision  rose  the  picture  of  the  senorita's  body  riddled 
with  bullets, 


Over  the  Line  147 

Boom !  boom !  bo-om ! 

Rapid  reports  followed  flash  after  flash.  The  can- 
non shook  the  earth  with  their  discharges. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  Castrillo  could  do  amidst 
infantry  advancing,  galloping  batteries  and  columns 
of  cavalry.  He  cursed  his  fate.  He  cursed  his  love. 
He  cursed  Josefa.  He  cursed  the  Americanos,  on 
whom  he  swore  to  wreak  his  vengeance  for  her 
death.  Fury  seized  him  as  a  spasm  and  passed 
away,  leaving  him  chill ;  for  a  cheer  went  up  from 
the  Mexicans  that  sent  torture  to  his  soul.  The 
anticipation  he  had  dreaded  had  now  become  a 
terrible  reality.  He  could  hear  the  officers  shouting : 

"Forward !  forward !" 

Armed  with  crowbars,  scaling  ladders  and  fire- 
arms, the  Mexicans  twice  stormed  the  wall,  twice  to 
meet  a  deadly  repulse. 

"Give  it  to  them  in  the  eyes,  boys,"  shouted 
Travis,  and  the  Texan  bullets  hummed,  singing  their 
death  song. 

Urged  and  driven  on  by  their  officers,  the  Mexi- 
cans dared  another  assault.  Their  screaming,  yell- 
ing and  hooting  made  a  chorus  that  sounded  like 
the  roar  of  wild  beasts.  Cold  drops  of  sweat  broke 
out  on  Castrillo's  forehead,  and  though  he  still  man- 
aged to  sit  his  horse,  he  was  as  one  in  a  trance, 
hearing  nothing,  seeing  nothing — save  Josefa  Ur- 
rea,  whom  only  a  miracle  could  now  save,  or  the 
Power  Supreme. 

The  seiiorita,  with  Mother  Dickinson,  had  taken 
refuge  in  the  convent-room.  A  great  change  had 
come  over  Josefa,  who,  quivering  with  excitement, 


148  The  Grito 

trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The  moment  had  made 
her  a  woman.  There  was  no  weeping,  no  wringing 
of  hands,  no  crying  out  against  fate.  The  sounds 
from  without  foreboded  an  assault,  a  desperate 
struggle,  a  massacre.  Suddenly  Captain  Dickinson 
burst  in  upon  them,  saying : 

"Great  God!  Sue,  the  Mexicans  are  inside  our 
walls — all  is  lost."  And  hurriedly  kissing  wife  and 
child  farewell,  he  hastened  back  to  the  fight.  Clinch, 
who  had  been  lying  at  Josefa's  feet,  bounded  after 
him. 

Hearing  what  he  said,  the  girl  fell  to  her  knees, 
imploring  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  save  them,  while 
Mother  Dickinson,  with  a  prayer  in  her  heart, 
watched  her  husband  as  long  as  he  was  in  view,  then 
pressing  her  child  to  her  bosom,  she  lifted  her  eyes 
and  faintly  whispered : 

"O  Lord  God  of  battles,  help  us!" 

The  surging  throng,  the  swarming  soldiers  were 
filling  the  presidio. 

The  din  of  battle  roared  in  their  ears.  Nearer 
the  women  huddled  together,  for  the  mutterings, 
curses  and  clamorings  of  the  struggling  mingled 
with  the  groans  and  shrieks  of  the  dying. 

"Kill  them  as  they  come !"  shouted  Travis.  Just 
then  a  Mexican  ball  wounded  him  mortally.  He 
tottered  on  the  rampart,  his  musket  fell  from  his 
hand  and  a  Mexican  tried  to  cut  off  his  head  with 
his  sabre.  With  that  sudden  burst  of  strength  that 
sometimes  comes  to  the  dying,  Travis  seized  his 
sword  and  sheathed  it  in  the  heart  of  his  assailant, 
while  with  the  cry :  "No  rendirse  muclwchos,  don't 


Over  the  Line  149 

surrender,  boys !"  the  commander  of  the  Alamo  fell 
to  be  "enrolled  with  Leonidas  in  the  list  of  the 
mighty  dead"* 

Like  a  swarm  of  locusts  the  brown  faces  came 
pouring  into  the  old  church.  So  crowded  was  the 
garrison  it  was  impossible  to  shoot,  so  in  hand-to- 
hand  combat  they  fought,  using  their  rifles  as  clubs. 

The  Mexicans  seized  the  cannon  near  the  gateway 
which  Travis  had  died  defending,  and  turned  it  upon 
the  fort.  The  Americans  defended  themselves  like 
wild  beasts,  glutting  their  hatred  and  vengeance. 
Concentrated  contempt  shone  on  their  stern  coun- 
tenances as  they  grappled  with  the  foe.  The  air  was 
sulphurous.  The  Mexicans  were  everywhere.  Swart 
faces  and  stalwart  forms  went  down  together.  Cool 
and  desperate,  Bowie  stretched  upon  his  cot,  like  a 
tiger  in  his  lair,  awaited  his  fate,  and  when  the 
Mexicans  came  he  fought  them  back  until  the  floor 
of  his  small  room  was  strewn  with  dead  men.  His 
strength  then  failing,  a  Greaser  succeeded  in  giving 
him  his  death-wound,  but  as  he  did  so  the  sick  man 
plunged  his  bowie-knife  in  him  to  the  hilt,  so  that 
they  died  together.  Truly,  Bowie  had  won  his  right 
to  crossing  over  the  hero  line. 

The  Mexicans  continued  to  rush  in.  Bonham  had 
fallen  in  the  fray,  and  only  David  Crockett,  Major 
Evans,  the  juggler,  and  the  bee-hunter  were  pitted 
against  the  army  of  Santa  Anna — but  the  Texans 
were  game  to  the  last.  Crockett  stood  like  a  giant 
oak  battling  with  a  hurricane — his  arms  struck  out, 
one  hand  clutching  his  shattered  "Betsy,"  the  other 


150  The  Grito 

holding  his  bowie-knife  dripping  with  blood;  his 
eyes,  deep  sunk,  glaring  like  burning  coals. 

"Fire  the  magazine!''  he  yelled  to  Evans,  who 
started  to  do  so,  but  was  butchered  in  the  attempt. 

Blackened  with  powder  stains,  now  the  little  band 
of  three  seemed  like  Cerebus  guarding  the  Alamo, 
which  had  become  a  hell  on  earth. 

Santa  Anna,  thinking  the  struggle  over,  appeared 
on  the  scene,  his  face  beaming,  his  happiness 
supreme.  The  sight  of  him  infuriated  Crockett  to 
frenzy.  It  was  the  white  heat,  the  flameless,  con- 
suming fury  of  anthracite.  With  blood  spurting 
from  his  forehead,  where  Castrillo's  sabre  wound 
had  been  torn  open  afresh,  the  man  who  "could  whip 
his  weight  in  wild  cats"  sprang  at  the  throat  of  the 
Dictator,  but  sixty  hands  were  raised  to  beat  him  off. 
The  juggler,  in  trying  to  defend  his  friend,  went 
down,  his  knife  deep  in  the  breast  of  the  Mexican 
who  had  attacked  him.  Thus  was  slain  David 
Crockett,  the  bear  hunter,  the  wit,  the  inimitable,  the 
statesman,  the  patriot,  the  hero.  The  Mexicans 
mutilated  his  body  and  spat  upon  it,  but  it  mattered 
not,  for  Crockett's  soul  had  gone  home  "to  the  God 
of  the  fearless  and  free."* 

None  of  the  soldiers  had  as  yet  broken  in  the  little 
convent-room  where  the  women  were,  until  Colonel 
Almonte  pushed  open  the  door  and  asked  in  good 
English,  for  Mrs.  Dickinson,  adding :  "If  you  wish 
to  save  your  life,  come  with  me." 

She  arose  to  obey  and  Josefa  followed.  When 
they  reached  the  doorway  an  arm  stretched  forth  and 
the  voice  of  Father  Clement  warned  Josefa  in  a 


Over  the  Line  151 

whisper  not  to  follow.  So  alone,  save  that  she  car- 
ried her  child,  Mother  Dickinson  was  ushered  into 
the  presence  of  Santa  Anna.  The  Savior  and  Pre- 
server of  Mexico  was  in  a  good  humor.  Deeming 
his  victory  complete,  the  murderer  was  anxious  that 
the  news  of  his  gory  crime  should  spread.  Hence 
Mother  Dickinson  and  her  child  were  placed  on  a 
horse,  and  with  an  insolent  message  from  the  Dicta- 
tor she  was  ordered  to  carry  the  tidings  of  the  carn- 
age to  the  Texan  colonists. 

In  the  convent-room  Father  Clement  had  taken  off 
his  cassock  and  wrapped  Josefa  in  it.  Picking  up 
a  sombrero  he  pulled  it  down  over  the  girl's  hair, 
nearly  covering  her  face.  Thus  disguised  she  did 
not  look  like  a  female.  As  the  two  stole  out  of  the 
fort  Josefa's  glance  was  attracted  by  a  low,  mournful 
whine  full  of  distress.  It  came  from  Clinch,  who, 
sniffing  among  the  dead,  had  found  his  master's 
body.  The  Priest,  noticing  whose  corpse  it  was, 
said,  "God  rest  his  soul!"  as  he  hurried  by.  A 
Mexican  also  passing,  stopped,  put  the  muzzle  of  his 
escoepta  close  to  the  dog's  head  and  fired,  saying: 
"See  me  kill  the  last  damn  dog  of  an  Americano!" 
Then  he  laughed  uproariously  at  his  own  wit. 

The  scene  in  the  Alamo  was  a  sight  too  horrible 
for  words  to  describe.  The  dead  lay  everywhere; 
the  waters  of  the  acequias  ran  with  blood.  Santa 
Anna,  viewing  the  slain,  gloated  over  the  butchery ; 
his  wolf-like  taste  thirsted  for  more.  The  sanguinary 
spectacle  whetted  his  appetite,  for  his  vengeance  was 
not  yet  satisfied.  The  garrison  being  dead  sufficed 
not ;  their  utter  annihilation  alone  could  appease  him. 


152  The  Grito 

"Castrillo,"  he  said,  "how  many  do  the  slain 
number?" 

But  no  answer  came,  for  the  man  addressed 
seemed  without  the  power  of  speech.  His  face  was 
ashen,  his  breath  spasmodic,  his  eyes  riveted  on 
vacancy.  Almonte,  noticing  Castrillo' s  state  of 
collapse,  quickly  replied  for  him,  saying : 

"Excuse  me,  General,  but  Castrillo  is  not  in  a 
position  to  know,  as  he  was  with  the  cavalry  guard- 
ing the  outposts,  and  has  not  as  yet  been  within  the 
fort,  so  I  expect  I  can  answer  more  accurately  than 
he.  I  think  fifteen  hundred,  or  at  the  limit  sixteen 
hundred,  will  cover  our  loss,  while  the  defenders  of 
the  Alamo  were  said  to  be  about  two  hundred.'' 

"But,  caramba!  not  a  man  of  the  entire  garrison 
remains!"  ejaculated  Santa  Anna,  seeming  alto- 
gether to  forget  the  price  of  his  victory.  "Our 
soldiers  must  be  buried  with  the  honors  of  war,"  he 
continued,  "but  an  example  shall  be  made  of  these 
rebel  Texans.  See  to  it,  Castrillo,  that  their  bodies 
are  burned — a  layer  of  wood  and  a  layer  of  corpses ; 
make  a  pyramid  out  of  them;  ha,  ha!"  And  the 
laugh  breaking  from  his  lips  was  so  demoniacal  that 
it  aroused  Castrillo  from  his  lethargy. 

Ceaselessly,  like  the  wheels  of  Ixion,  his  thoughts 
revolved  always  on  the  fate  of  Josefa.  That  she  was 
dead  he  never  doubted,  so  he  never  asked.  It  was 
needless  for  any  one  to  tell  him  that  he  had  seen  her 
so.  Castrillo's  fancy  could  picture  her  lips,  twin 
roses  turned  to  lilies  under  the  icy  touch  of  death; 
her  bright  eyes  closed  forever  'neath  their  long  silken 
lashes ;  or  were  they  shut  or  did  they  look  up,  set  in 


Over  the  Line  153 

a  last  appeal  for  mercy?  After  all,  who  was  her 
murderer — was  it  not  Santa  Anna?  Loathing  and 
contempt  for  the  Dictator  rilled  him.  He  knew 
Santa  Anna  was  playing  this  game  solely  for  his  own 
ambition — and  he,  Juan  Castrillo,  would  cease  to  be 
a  pawn  in  his  hand.  Before  now  he  had  echoed 
Santa  Anna's  patriotism,  sympathized  with  him  in 
his  schemes,  lent  an  ear  to  his  plots.  Now  he  hated 
him  and  longed  for  his  overthrow.  One  nail  could 
drive  out  another.  Why  not?  It  had  done  so 
before.  He,  Juan  Castrillo,  might  seize  the  reins  of 
government  and  rule  Mexico.  No,  he  was  dream- 
ing; he  was  beside  himself;  grief  had  crazed  him. 
Santa  Anna  was  first  in  power,  but  could  not  Cas- 
trillo be  second  ?  Ambition  whispered  to  him  to  be 
cautious,  to  be  patient,  to  wed  the  Dictator's  sister, 
and  by  becoming  a  member  of  his  household  be  the 
power  behind  the  throne — until — until  the  hour  was 
ripe  to  cast  aside  the  puppet ;  but  in  the  meantime  he 
must  obey.  His  head  ached,  but  he  shook  himself 
together  and  went  forth  to  carry  out  Santa  Anna's 
command  to  burn  the  corpses  of  the  garrison  of  the 
Alamo. 

When  the  Mexican  soldiers,  like  vultures,  gathered 
round  to  destroy  the  dead,  Castrillo  turned  his  back 
that  he  might  not  see.  By  and  by  loud  jeers  burst- 
ing upon  his  ears  caused  him  to  turn  his  head,  for 
their  coarseness  and  hellish  glee  riveted  his  attention. 
What  mangled  body  was  it  that  caused  them  such 
fiendish  delight?  Looking  closely  Castrillo  recog- 
nized the  powder-begrimed  corpse  of  Crockett. 
Quickly  surging  over  his  soul  came  the  feeling  that 


154  The  Grito 

but  for  this  man's  interference  Josefa  might  now  be 
his.  At  first  the  thought  infuriated  him,  making 
him  glad  to  think  this  was  his  fate,  but  as  the  lifeless 
clay  was  dragged  nearer  and  he  saw  the  gash  in  the 
forehead  where  his  own  sabre  had  struck,  and  re- 
membering how  David  had  fought,  Castrillo  ex- 
claimed : 

"Crockett  was  too  brave  to  be  burned  like  a  dog, 
but  never  mind ;  throw  him  in." 

His  last  words  pleased  the  soldiers,  whose  favor 
he  was  beginning  already  to  court. 

Although  it  was  not  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  sun 
withdrew  from  the  horror  of  such  a  scene,  and  the 
heavens,  veiling  themselves  in  misty  clouds,  seemed 
silently  weeping  over  man's  inhumanity.  When  the 
pyre  was  ignited  the  moaning  of  the  wind  sounded 
a  requiem  for  the  dead.  The  fire,  the  cruel,  hungry 
fire,  like  the  Mexicans,  knew  no  mercy.  Its  tongues 
went  out  and  licked  up  the  blood  of  the  heroes  of  the 
Alamo.  The  wood  crackled,  and  as  the  pure  snow 
drops  falling  down  a  chimney  sputter,  so  the  blood 
of  those  Texan  martyrs  sputtered  in  the  flame.  The 
flames  licked  their  faces  with  fiery  breath,  singeing 
their  hair ;  the  corpses  began  to  turn  ash  and  crumble, 
like  the  trunks  of  burnt-out  trees.  At  times  the 
smoke  covered  them  with  a  pall,  but  here  and  there 
sightless  eyes  peeped  grimly  out;  an  arm  poked 
forth  as  if  it  fain  would  strike ;  a  leg  dangled  limp 
that  would  have  trampled  on  such  inhumanity,  such 
outrage — but  only  for  a  moment,  for  the  fire  leaping 
higher  consumed  all  before  it.  The  fumes  from  the 
pyre  were  horrible  in  the  extreme,  mingling  as  they 


Over  the  Line  155 

did  the  smell  of  burnt  wood,  charred  human  flesh, 
and  the  buckskin  suits  of  the  defenders  of  the  Alamo. 
The  wind  caught  it  up  and  wafted  it  all  over  San 
Antonio,  a  blood-curdling,  unsavory  smell  to  every 
nostril  save  Santa  Anna's.  To  him  it  seemed  as 
incense. 

Sheets  of  flame  now  enveloped  the  pyre  and  blazed 
upward  in  a  smoking,  lurid  glow,  and  then  sunk 
slowly  as  the  corpses  beneath  burnt  out — the  fuel 
grew  less.  Glimmering  sparks  fell  like  hail  upon  the 
ground  around  as  if  Nemesis  were  striving  to  catch 
in  her  wrath  and  wipe  out  of  existence  those  who 
participated  in  this  atrocity.  A  long,  slim  tongue  of 
flame,  serpent-shaped,  like  the  emblem  of  Mexico, 
shot  in  the  air,  writhed  for  a  second  only,  and  then 
fell  back,  vanquished  in  the  dying  embers. 

The  tumult  of  the  orgy  was  more  than  Castrillo 
could  stand,  and  long  since  he  had  withdrawn  from 
the  scene,  but  the  memory  of  it  went  with  him,  and 
try  as  he  would  he  could  not  shut  it  out  from  his 
vision.  He  longed  in  vain  for  the  river  of  forget- 
fulness  to  wash  the  heat  from  his  brow.  He  won- 
dered, though  he  had  not  seen  his  face,  if  the  man 
who  had  so  recklessly  ridden  up  and  seized  Josefa 
were  Carlos  Daubigney,  his  rival  whom  she  loved. 
The  thought  came  to  him  that  perchance  their  bodies 
now  lay  together  in  the  funeral  pyre,  while  their 
souls,  like  birds  set  free,  having  loved  on  earth, 
might  seek  each  other  to  mate  in  Elysian  fields.  The 
thought  was  unbearable  and  Castrillo,  distracted 
with  jealousy,  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  clutch- 


156  The  Grito 

ing  the  sod  in  his  suffering,  while  agonizing  groans 
rent  the  air. 

Not  half  a  mile  from  him  sat  Josefa,  with  her  head 
bowed  in  her  hands.  Shuddering  and  sick  at  heart 
she  sought  to  shut  out  the  terrible  reality ;  but  Father 
Clement  watched  the  funeral  pyre.  The  French  in 
his  nature  was  aroused;  mob-like,  his  feelings  effer- 
vesced with  vehemence ;  he  was  wild  with  excitement 
and  as  rabidly  indignant  as  was  ever  Peter  the 
Hermit  at  the  sacrilege  to  the  sepulchre.  In  his 
frenzy  he  forgot  all  languages  save  his  native  tongue, 
which  proved  fortunate  for  his  safety,  as  the 
Spanish-speaking  people  whom  he  denounced  would 
hardly  have  borne  his  vituperations. 

"Heap  on  the  fire!"  he  shouted ;  "kindle  with  your 
own  hands  the  beacon  light  to  inspire  others  with 
their  fortitude  and  bravery,  for  the  phoenix  of 
Liberty  will  rise  out  of  their  ashes ! 

"Brave  Texans,"  he  continued,  "like  Elijah  of  old 
they  ascend  to  heaven  in  a  chariot  like  unto  fire,  and 
the  time  will  come  when  'the  blood-stained  stones  of 
the  Alamo  will  speak  that  their  immolation  be  not 
forgotten;  for  Thermopylae  had  her  messengers  of 
defeat — the  Alamo  has  none/  "* 

The  Priest  having  delivered  his  eulogy,  jerked 
Josefa's  arm,  biding  her  arise,  for  San  Antonio  had 
now  become  a  bedlam.  The  Mexican  army  was 
celebrating  its  victory  with  a  carousal  that  made  the 
hours  hideous  and  the  city  unsafe  for  women;  so 
Father  Clement  and  his  godchild  hurried  away. 

A  slight  shower  meanwhile  had  begun  to  fall,  as 
if  pitying  Heaven  sought  to  quench  the  spirit  of 


Over  the  Line  157 

barbaric  cruelty.  When  the  clouds  lifted,  a  rainbow 
like  an  arch  of  triumph  spanned  the  sky  above  the 
Alamo.  In  it  were  woven  beams  of  hope  like 
primeval  prophecy  and  promise  that  never  again 
would  the  power  of  destruction  hold  sway  o'er  the 
land.  Brighter  and  brighter  it  grew.  Filmy  threads 
of  gold  seemed  holding  together  myriads  of  emerald, 
amethyst,  beryl,  topaz,  sapphire  and  ruby  into  a  tiara 
fit  to  crown  the  Goddess  of  Liberty.  Ere  its  radiant 
glimmer  faded  into  the  twilight  one  lonely  little  star 
peeped  out  timidly  and  feebly  flickered  in  the  gloom. 
Soon  the  dark  blue  curtain  of  night  was  spangled 
with  other  constellations,  but  none  shown  with  a 
brighter,  purer  light  more  beautiful  than  the  lone 
star  twinkling  above  the  battered,  blood-stained  walls 
of  the  Alamo. 


*These  quotations  marked  with  a  star  (*)  in  this  chapter  are 
from  the  inscriptions  on  the  old  monument  erected  at  Austin 
of  stones  from  the  Alamo,  to  the  memory  of  Travis,  Bowie, 
Bonham,  and  Crockett. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WEIGHT  OF  A  FEATHER 

The  long  and  fearful  anxiety  of  the  trying  days 
in  the  fort  had  told  on  Jose  fa.  The  fate  of  the 
Alamo  garrison  had  made  her  tremble  for  her  lover's 
safety  in  a  land  invaded  by  Santa  Anna,  for  where 
Daubigney  was  she  knew  not.  The  possibility  of  his 
seeking  her  in  San  Antonio  filled  her  with  dread,  and 
yet  in  leaving  Bexar  she  feared  they  might  never 
meet  again,  for  no  clue  had  been  left  as  to  their 
movements.  The  relinquishment  of  this  hope  com- 
pletely overwhelmed  her.  Heartbroken  she  felt,  and 
little  caring  whether  life  or  death  awaitd  them,  the 
senorita  followed  the  Jesuit. 

Fearing  to  take  the  road,  lest  they  cross  Mexican 
soldiers,  the  Priest  hugged  the  river  bank,  trusting 
the  protecting  friendliness  of  advancing  night  might 
shelter  them  with  its  darkness,  but  the  undergrowth 
of  vines  and  bushes  was  so  dense,  walking  was  no 
easy  task,  yet  on  they  trudged,  hoping  to  leave  the 
city  some  distance  behind  before  day  revealed  their 
cover.  When  the  moon  stealing  into  the  sky  bright- 
ened their  way,  they  were  enabled  to  proceed  with 
more  ease. 

Father  Clement,  realizing  the  girl's  strength  was 
well-nigh  exhausted,  resolved  that  just  as  soon  as  a 


The  Weight  of  a  Feather  159 

clearing  was  reached  they  must  tarry  for  rest,  for  he 
deemed  the  danger  greater  from  insects  and  snakes 
in  the  thicket  than  elsewhere  the  probability  of 
human  foes.  When,  however,  they  finally  emerged 
into  an  open  space,  two  disagreeable  surprises 
awaited  them.  The  land,  though  free  from  under- 
brush, was  covered  with  cactus,  while  seated  on  a 
broken  tree,  not  twenty  feet  away,  was  a  man  occu- 
pied in  removing  thorns  from  his  feet.  Roughly 
clad,  with  marks  of  pain  on  his  brow,  his  presence 
was  not  a  pleasing  sight.  That  he  did  not  wear  a 
Mexican  uniform,  though,  was  at  least  comforting 
to  the  Jesuit.  Approaching,  the  Priest  addressed 
him,  forgetful  he  was  still  using  a  language  foreign 
to  the  vernacular  of  the  country,  until  in  French 
equalling  his  own  in  fluency  the  stranger  replied : 
"Why,  Pere  Clement,  I  am  Moses  Rose." 
Josefa,  seeing  him  better  and  hearing  his  name, 
instantly  recognized  him  as  the  man  who  had 
admitted  Nina,  and,  later  on,  jumped  from  the  walls 
of  the  Alamo.  Fearing  to  travel  in  the  day,  Rose 
had  lain  hidden  in  the  shelter  of  the  river's  foliage. 
His  meanderings  the  night  before  had  not  taken  him 
far,  for  the  norther  sweeping  over  Bexar  had  made 
the  sky  moonless  and  his  limbs  numb  with  cold. 
Learning  from  the  Priest  the  particulars  of  the 
battle,  the  man  shivered.  "It  is  even  worse  than  I 
dreaded,"  he  said,  "though  I  knew  the  end  had  come 
by  the  cessation  of  cannonading."  He  then  added, 
as  if  explaining  his  flight:  "I  had  my  fill  of  the 
sufferings  of  war  when  we  retreated  from  Moscow ; 
that  was  why  I  came  to  Louisiana.  Had  I  stayed, 


160  The  Grito 

like  the  others,  I  would  have  perished.  As  it  is  I 
go  forth  to  bear  to  the  world  the  tidings  of  that 
siege  and  of  Travis's  speech ;  and  when  the  Texans 
hear  all,  their  war  cry  will  be,  'Remember  the 
Alamo!"' 

Whereupon  the  Priest  snatched  off  his  old  hat,  as 
he  had  waved  his  cockade  in  days  gone  by,  exclaim- 
ing with  the  modulation  of  a  suppressed  shout, 
"Ours  was  'Liberte!  Egalite!  Fraternite!'  "  Then, 
kneeling  down,  Father  Clement  busied  himself  pull- 
ing out  the  long  thorns  with  which  Rose's  feet  and 
legs  were  rilled. 

"Mon  Dieu!  how  the  cactus  thorns  hurt!"  winced 
Rose,  adding:  "This  country  ain't  fit  for  anything 
but  hell,  so  it  will  suit  Santa  Anna  first  rate.  Tiens! 
Who  wants  to  live  here,  where  every  bush  has  got  a 
thorn  on  it  and  even  the  sand  is  all  mixed  up 
with  ants,  and  actually  the  toads  have  got  horns. 
Morbleu!  that  Mexican  devil  can  have  Texas  and 
welcome  too,  for  all  Moses  Rose  cares." 

The  chill  following  the  wake  of  the  norther  had 
been  greatly  moderated  by  a  warm  breeze  springing 
up  from  the  south.  When  daybreak  came,  though, 
it  had  not  dissipated  the  great  mist  that  lay  along  the 
river  bank  and  beyond  it,  and  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning  the  trio  plodded  on.  The  days  following 
brought  only  the  hardships  that  are  common  to 
travelers  unprepared  for  a  journey.  As  neither  the 
Priest  nor  Rose  had  a  gun,  though  often  pheasant 
and  plover  whirred  close  by  them,  it  was  only  to 
whet  their  appetites  for  the  herbs,  roots,  and  mush- 
rooms that  were  all  they  had  to  satisfy  hunger,  so 


The  Weight  of  a  Feather  161 

great  was  their  joy  when  a  cabin  appeared  in  view. 
Upon  reaching  it  the  house  was  found  deserted,  its 
inhabitants  having  fled,  leaving  their  provisions 
behind  them  in  their  haste  to  quit  a  land  threatened 
by  Santa  Anna's  army.  There  the  travelers  tarried, 
while  Josefa's  skill  provided  a  repast  equalling  a 
feast,  for  bread  was  baked,  meat  fried  and  coffee 
boiled. 

Being  refreshed  greatly  by  this  meal  and  having 
provided  themselves  with  such  food  as  could  be 
conveniently  carried,  the  journey  was  again  resumed. 
The  trail  followed,  indistinct  at  first,  soon  became 
more  clearly  defined  as  it  led  into  a  canebrake,  the 
passage  through  which  was  barely  wide  enough  to 
allow  the  travelers  to  proceed  in  single  file.  The 
tops  of  the  stalks  ofttimes  completely  overlapped 
their  path,  making  a  tunnel  opening,  picturesque,  like 
a  covert-way  leading  to  a  guarded  bower.  When 
Father  Clement,  Josefa  and  Rose  issued  from  this 
canebrake  it  was  to  find  themselves  facing  an  Indian 
village.  On  a  small  dry  space  these  savages  had 
their  camp.  Near  the  tent  doors,  in  sight  of  their 
working  mothers,  hung  the  papooses  in  their  com- 
fortless cradles,  while  on  the  sward  tumbled  and 
played  the  larger  children.  Close  by  several  ponies 
were  quietly  grazing,  while  ten  or  twelve  braves 
lounged  under  two  small  trees,  the  only  shade  in  the 
opening.  Seeing  the  intruders,  instantly  they  sprang 
to  their  feet,  looking  at  them  in  a  most  menacing 
way.  When  they  saw  how  small  was  their  number 
they  muttered  words  in  their  own  language  meaning 
"Spies !  Spies !"  and  raising  their  tomahawks  threat- 


162  The  Grito 

eningly,  compelled  them  to  surrender,  for  these 
Indians  belonged  to  the  Campeachy  nation,  that  was 
hostile  and  treacherous  to  the  Americans,  joining 
with  the  Mexicans  in  their  atrocities.  Believing  by 
their  soiled  appearance  that  they  were  fugitive 
Texans,  they  treated  them  accordingly.  All  plead- 
ings from  the  Priest  proved  futile,  and  forthwith 
the  Campeachys  proceeded  to  bind  them  with  thongs. 
Josefa  and  Rose  were  tied  first  and  securely  made 
fast  to  the  trees.  When,  however,  the  savages 
approached  Father  Clement  to  treat  him  likewise, 
immediately  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and  opening  his 
coat  produced  a  small  crucifix  that  fairly  dazzled  the 
sight  of  the  bewildered  redskins.  Seeing  it  was 
producing  an  effect,  the  Jesuit  pointed  heavenward ; 
then,  rising  to  his  feet,  he  removed  a  cross  worn 
about  his  neck  and  handed  it  to  the  buck  nearest 
him,  offering  the  others  the  crucifix,  which  none  of 
them  would  touch,  though  they  scanned  it  with 
curious  eyes. 

His  gestures  convinced  the  Indians  that  he  was 
appealing  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  back  to  his  knees 
the  Priest  had  sunk,  and  with  crucifix  held  high 
above  his  head  was  praying  with  a  fervency  that 
awed  them,  causing  them  to  slink  away  to  confer 
together.  When  finally  he  arose  from  his  supplica- 
tions a  young  buck  approached  and  led  him  near  the 
fire,  where  a  squaw  was  preparing  some  venison. 
The  Jesuit,  by  signs  toward  Josefa  and  Rose,  was 
not  slow  in  making  the  Indians  understand  that  he 
would  not  touch  the  meat  until  his  companions  were 
first  fed,  a  sentiment  that  produced  laconic  grunts  of 


The  Weight  of  a  Feather  163 

disgust  from  his  captors.  The  young  braves,  though 
glaring  viciously  at  Rose,  cast  such  admiring  glances 
upon  Jose  fa  that  Father  Clement  was  so  disquieted 
he  could  not  relish  his  food,  albeit  he  forced  it  down. 
When  the  crescent  moon  shone  like  a  scimitar  in  the 
heavens  the  Indians  settled  themselves  to  rest,  a 
young  buck  watching  close  beside  Father  Clement. 

All  the  Priest's  thoughts  were  for  Jose  fa,  whose 
low  weeping  soon  gave  way  to  exhaustion  as  she 
slept  the  sleep  of  the  weary.  Rose  was  between  the 
Jesuit  and  the  sefiorita,but  no  word  of  comfort  dared 
the  men  whisper  to  each  other,  and  ere  long  the  old 
Frenchman  heard  a  snore  from  his  compatriot.  The 
night  wore  on,  still  Father  Clement  never  closed  his 
eyes.  Possessing  his  soul  with  patience,  he  tried  to 
think,  to  devise  some  plan  of  escape.  Noting  the 
intentness  with  which  his  guard  was  watching  him, 
the  idea  suddenly  flashed  across  the  Jesuit's  mind 
that  Mesmerism  might  possibly  open  a  way,  for 
when  a  young  man  in  Paris,  Father  Clement  had 
seen  Mesmer  himself  and  remembered  well  his 
methods. 

Taking  from  his  breast  his  crucifix,  the  Priest  by 
twirling  it  constantly  soon  riveted  the  redskin's 
scrutiny ;  next  he  began  moving  it  in  mystic  circles, 
noting,  meanwhile,  with  delight  the  effect  the  shining 
object  was  producing.  Great  drops  of  perspiration 
began  to  appear  on  the  Campeachy's  brow,  his  breath 
became  slower  and  slower,  as  the  stage  of  drowsiness 
progressed.  The  Indian's  eyes  finally  closed,  his 
breathing  became  regular,  slow  and  somewhat  snor- 
ing, for  he  had  fallen  into  a  deep  hypnotic  sleep. 


164  The  Grito 

Father  Clement  then  very  cautiously  raised  him- 
self on  his  elbow,  and  being  satisfied  that  all  was 
well,  crept  along  until  he  reached  Rose,  whom  he 
quickly  loosened  and  awoke.  Moving  on  to  Josefa, 
after  cutting  her  thongs,  with  a  gentle  shake  he 
sought  to  arouse  her.  The  startled  senorita,  on 
opening  her  eyes  failed  to  recognize  the  figure 
bending  over  her.  Mistaking  Father  Clement  for  a 
savage,  she  uttered  a  piercing  shriek  that  broke  the 
sleep  of  every  warrior — all  save  the  young  buck. 
Leaping  to  their  feet,  the  Campeachys  thought  at 
first  it  was  a  signal,  until  they  realized  their  captives 
were  seeking  to  escape. 

The  Priest  now  felt  that  he  had  sealed  their  doom. 
Finding  their  prisoners  still  helpless  and  in  their 
power,  the  savages  surrounded  them,  yelping  like 
coyotes  in  their  glee.  This  continued  until  the 
prostrate  form  of  Father  Clement's  guard  diverted 
their  attention.  Approaching,  they  turned  him  over 
to  ascertain  whether  he  were  alive.  Hearing  his 
loud  breathing,  they  shook  him  and  gave  him  several 
kicks,  but  without  arousing  him;  then  they  with- 
drew, firmly  convinced  that  the  Priest  had  cast  a  spell 
upon  him. 

Soon  the  soft  pink  lights  against  the  dawning 
gray  heralded  sunrise,  and  the  squaws  bestirred 
themselves,  busy  getting  breakfast,  while  still  the 
buck  slept  on — until  the  sun,  like  a  disc,  shone  high 
in  the  heavens.  A  large  band  of  warriors  in  the 
meantime  returned  to  the  village.  Their  appearance 
was  formidable  in  the  extreme,  for  their  ugly  faces 
were  smeared  yellow  about  the  eyes  with  splotches  of 


The  Weight  of  a  Feather  165 

indigo  on  either  cheek.  A  pow-wow  immediately 
began.  The  men  were  sub-divided  into  groups. 
Those  who  participated  in  the  hunt,  but  were  too 
young  to  be  on  the  war-path,  cast  covetous  eyes  on 
their  seniors,  whose  stern  faces  were  seamed  with 
scars  bespeaking  their  prowess.  Not  far  from  the 
warriors  sat  the  old  men  of  the  tribe,  many  of  whom 
were  toothless  and  wrinkled  and  gray,  but  whose 
daring  in  days  past  had  established  their  ascendency. 
The  crones  came  out  of  their  wigwams,  and  huddling 
respectfully  near,  began  to  chant  in  a  low  and  mon- 
otonous key  of  the  former  glories  of  the  Campeachy 
nation.  As  they  recalled  the  lost  power  of  the  tribe, 
their  gray  locks  were  tossed  in  the  air,  while  with  a 
common  howl  they  sought  to  accentuate  some  special 
cadence. 

Father  Clement  knew  now  or  never  was  the  time 
to  work  upon  their  superstition.  Pointing  to  the 
buck  who  still  lay  under  his  hypnotic  spell,  by  signs 
he  challenged  the  Indians  to  awaken  him — signifying 
it  was  in  his  power  to  do  so.  Their  medicine-men, 
crowned  with  leaves  and  wearing  necklaces  of  shells, 
went  through  weird  ceremonies  over  him,  such  as 
dancing  and  shaking  of  rattles,  at  which  the  Priest 
laughed  derisively  as  the  young  Indian  still  lay  like 
one  in  a  trance,  a  stupor.  Motioning  them  to  stop 
their  futile  attempts,  the  Jesuit  leaned  over  the 
sleeper,  and  slowly  passing  his  hands  over  the  buck's 
eyes,  in  a  loud  voice  commanded  him  to  arise.  His 
hypnotic  sleep  broken,  instantly  the  Indian  obeyed 
by  springing  to  his  feet.  The  effect  was  awesome. 
The  Campeachys  regarded  it  as  a  miracle,  and  fear 


166  The  Grito 

seized  upon  them,  but  only  temporarily,  for  their 
war  blood  was  up,  their  savagery  was  aroused, 
craving  refreshment,  demanding  indulgence.  Their 
plans  soon  materialized — they  would  adopt  Father 
Clement  into  their  tribe  as  a  medicine-man,  but  burn 
the  other  two,  for,  though  many  of  the  braves  would 
have  liked  to  have  had  Josefa,  they  feared  in  some 
manner  occult,  mysterious,  the  Priest  would  spirit 
her  away.  Two  stakes  were  accordingly  driven  in 
the  ground,  to  which  Josefa  and  Rose  were  trussed. 
Father  Clement  now  waved  his  crucifix  wildly, 
imploring  the  help  of  heaven,  but  the  Campeachys 
were  sullen,  dogged,  resolute.  They  had  seen  before 
this  the  incantations  of  medicine-men. 

The  squaws  and  children  made  haste  to  the  cane- 
brake,  and  returning  with  arms  heavy  laden  with 
sticks  and  dry  fuel,  began  placing  it  around  the 
stakes. 

The  senorita  bore  the  rough  treatment  to  which 
she  was  subjected  in  a  manner  that  elicited  the  Cam- 
peachys' admiration.  The  frightful  scenes  of  the 
Alamo,  so  recently  experienced,  had  benumbed  her 
feelings.  Love  and  grief  for  Daubigney  had  preyed 
on  her  mind  until  she  seemed  stupefied — and  £he 
Indian  vein  inherited  from  her  mother  made  her 
stoical. 

Moses  Rose,  being  of  coarser  calibre,  wept  aloud 
at  his  prospective  torture.  His  fear  greatly  delight- 
ing the  young  braves,  made  them  leap  in  air,  whirl- 
ing their  tomahawks  as  if  to  brain  him,  and  narrowly 
grazing  his  head,  while  mocking  laughter  at  their 
fiendish  sport  burst  from  their  lips.  Grim  old  hags 


The  Weight  of  a  Feather  167 

also  tortured  Rose,  twisting  their  wrinkled  faces  into 
bunches  of  knots  in  token  of  the  pain  the  fire  would 
make  him  suffer.  Their  barbaric  love  of  agony 
made  them  determined  to  burn  the  man  first,  hoping 
his  death  might  melt  the  courage  of  the  girl.  The 
grief  of  Father  Clement  amused  them  greatly  and 
they  compelled  him  to  join  the  procession  of  braves 
in  the  death-dance.  Many  times  the  savages  circled 
around  the  stakes  with  a  slow,  measured  tread,  then 
their  movements  became  quicker,  imitating  as  they 
did  the  flight  of  vultures  and  the  rush  of  wolves. 
The  squaws  bringing  the  fire,  approached  with  cries 
wild  and  terrible;  the  warriors  paused  to  see  them 
light  the  kindling.  At  that  moment  a  loud  neigh 
sounded  on  the  air,  to  which  the  Campeachys'  ponies 
whinnied  in  reply,  just  as  the  canes  parted  and 
another  band  of  warriors  rode  into  view.  The 
death-song  ceased — the  newcomers  were  not  Cam- 
peachys,  but  their  liegelords,  the  Comanches.  A 
loud  shout  of  thanksgiving  burst  from  the  lips  of 
the  Priest  when  he  recognized  the  foremost  rider  as 
Big  Terrapin.  Seizing  his  bridle,  the  Jesuit  led  him 
to  where  Josefa  stood  at  the  stake.  All  too  well  the 
Chief  knew  the  seriousness  of  her  position. 

Removing  the  headgear  containing  the  ostrich 
feather  she  had  given  him,  he  shook  it  proudly  in 
the  air,  uttering  words  most  ferocious  in  sound. 
Then  placing  his  war-bonnet  on  the  senorita's  head, 
he  declared  any  insult  offered  to  her  would  be  even 
as  to  himself. 

"Hearken,"  he  said,  using  a  language  compre- 
hensible to  his  hearers,  "to  the  words  of  one  who 


168  The  Grito 

is  a  great  chief  and  has  sat  in  many  war-councils. 
Many  moons  have  come  and  gone  since  t.he 
Comanches  sought  to  chastise  their  brothers,  the 
Campeachys,  but  Big  Terrapin  will  tie  knots  in  his 
belt  of  wampum  and  bid  his  tribe  dig  up  the  war- 
hatchet  if  his  friends  of  the  pale  faces,  the  old  man, 
the  young  maiden,  and  their  companion  are  not 
treated  kindly.  The  nation  of  the  Comanches  is 
powerful,  the  sky  is  the  roof  of  their  wigwam,  the 
earth  is  their  mother,  the  Great  Spirit  their  Father. 
From  Him  we  learn  to  battle  and  have  the  power 
of  conquering  our  enemies  like  game  falls  before  the 
hunter  in  the  moon  of  leaves.  Free  these  captives 
and  Big  Terrapin  will  smoke  again  the  peace-pipe 
with  the  tribe  of  the  Campeachys." 

A  dignity  almost  noble  accompanied  these  words, 
but  his  physical  rather  than  moral  influence  had 
weight  with  his  listeners.  Silently  and  sullenly  the 
dastardly  redskins  hastened  to  obey  him,  for  well 
they  knew,  as  Big  Terrapin  stood  before  them  like  a 
colossal  statue  in  bronze,  that  he  made  no  boast  that 
he  was  not  able  to  execute. 

"Big  Terrapin  will  remember  this,"  he  said,  "when 
the  sun  rises  on  other  councils  and  he  mingles  his 
voice  with  the  words  of  wise  men."  Then  lifting 
Josefa  up  in  front  of  him,  the  Chief  galloped  out  of 
the  village,  while  the  two  Frenchmen,  on  mounts 
supplied  by  the  Comanches,  followed.  The  nimble 
ponies  of  the  Indians  soon  bore  them  out  of  harm's 
way.  With  the  coming  of  daylight  Rose,  quitting 
his  horse  and  the  party,  struck  across  the  country 
toward  the  east,  while  the  others  rode  on  silently. 
The  arm  of  Big-  Terrapin,  a  huge  mass  of  iron 


The  Weight  of  a  Feather  169 

muscles,  held  Josefa  firmly  though  tenderly  as  his 
horse  broke  into  a  gallop.  His  treatment  of  the 
senorita  was  gentle  and  unobtrusive,  astonishing  in 
a  savage.  Ere  long  the  Mission  of  Espiritu  Santo 
loomed  in  the  distance  and  the  village  of  Goliad 
appeared  in  view.  Before  reaching  there  the 
Comanches  halted.  Pointing  toward  Goliad,  Big 
Terrapin  said:  "Squaw  love  pale  face!"  And 
placing  her  gently  on  the  ground,  a  look  of  pride 
overspread  his  countenance  while  delight  danced  in 
his  snakey  eyes  as  he  said : 

"Me  big  Injun,  me  kill  him — so — !"  And  the 
Chief,  leaping  back  on  his  pony,  flashed  the  Toledan 
blade,  that  Father  Clement  had  given  him,  through 
the  air  with  a  sweep  that  carried  horror  to  Josefa's 
heart  as  she  noticed  for  the  first  time  on  Big  Terra- 
pin's hand  Carlos  Daubigney's  signet  ring.  The  girl 
uttered  a  cry  of  anguish,  then  darkness  flooded  her 
bewildered  brain,  for  desolate  and  widowed  felt  her 
heart,  making  her  long  to  die,  since  life  seemed  filled 
with  naught  but  misery. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CONCERNING    DAUBIGNEY 

Charles  Dabney  took  as  a  favorable  omen  his 
being1  allowed  to  pass  the  Mexicans'  sentries  without 
challenge,  for  the  Virginian,  like  men  whose  lives 
have  been  moulded  by  fate  rather  than  their  own 
fancy,  had  become  in  a  way  superstitious,  a  pre- 
destinarian,  a  fatalist.  Through  faith  in  the  cause 
of  liberty  he  now  hoped  the  Alamo  would  be  saved, 
that  it  would  be  a  victory  for  Texas,  but  he  could 
not  understand  how  that  would  be  possible  except 
by  temporal  relief.  With  a  soldier's  resignation  he 
had  accepted  the  risk  of  bearing  Travis's  appeal  for 
succor.  It  was  an  effort  made  sacred  by  love  of 
country  and  her  who  was  already  his  heart's  bride — 
and  the  Virginian  was  not  the  man  to  shirk  an 
obligation,  a  duty,  which  in  this  instance  was  also 
a  privilege. 

The  weather  was  in  harmony  with  conditions ;  the 
air  was  cool,  biting,  but  leaving  San  Antonio  it  was 
as  if  riding  out  of  the  norther's  teeth.  The  leaden, 
sullen  sky  disappeared  and  overhead  spread  a  ceru- 
lean canopy,  with  laces  of  thin  white  clouds.  The 
atmosphere  became  pure  and  bland  with  that  trans- 
parency characteristic  of  Texas  climate.  The 
prairie  unrolled  itself  like  a  giant  scroll,  immense, 


Concerning  Daubigney  171 

measureless,  infinite.  Primeval  stillness  brooded 
over  its  vastness,  the  league  on  league  that  was 
Dabney's  race-track,  with  the  lives  in  the  Alamo, 
the  life  of  Josef  a,  at  stake.  The  man  rode  as  he 
had  never  ridden  before.  If  he  had  followed  his 
desire  he  would  have  gone  as  if  astride  the  light- 
ning, but  good  judgment  prompted  his  not  spending 
his  horse's  strength  in  the  outset.  He  was  well 
mounted,  his  animal  being  a  dark  gray,  of  good 
metal,  willing  spirit  and  finely  limbed.  The  prairie 
was  covered  with  a  short  herbage,  coarse  and  wiry, 
known  as  buffalo  grass.  At  this  season  it  was  too 
dry  for  good  grazing,  but  occasionally  Dabney 
noted  worn  footpaths  showing  where  bison  had 
passed.  As  the  ground  sloped  southward,  the  turf 
became  more  spongy,  groves  of  mesquite  resembling 
peach  orchards  broke  the  monotony  of  dead  level, 
while  scrub  jacks  and  post-oaks  rose  like  lone 
sentinels  guarding  the  plain. 

Dabney's  horse  went  on  in  a  swinging  gallop,  and 
the  rider's  heart,  filled  with  his  mission,  leaped  for 
joy  at  the  distance  he  had  already  covered.  Hope 
rose  high,  buoyant,  exultant,  as  he  began  to  feel 
sanguine  of  success.  He  knew  that  all  Americans 
in  Texas  would  flock  to  the  aid  of  the  Alamo  when 
they  learned  of  the  dangers  besetting  the  brave 
garrison.  Dabney  could  see  in  his  mind's  eye 
Houston  leading  a  relief  force.  The  Virginian 
knew  the  material  that  would  comprise  that  division, 
those  who  would  answer  to  Travis's  call ;  men  rough 
but  trustworthy,  strong  but  sympathetic,  loyally 
loving  but  mercilessly  hating — before  such  a  force 


172  The  Grito 

Dabney  felt  Santa  Anna's  horde  would  be  as  tin 
soldiers,  with  no  patriotism  to  give  battle,  no  heart 
to  fight.  And  this  was  not  the  only  picture  that 
rose  to  Dabney's  mind.  Beyond  the  war  clouds  his 
fancy  descried  the  shimmer  of  a  horizon  bounded 
by  a  hearthstone  where  he  and  Josefa  would  sit 
together,  and  while  she  thrummed  her  guitar  he 
would  read  to  her  from  Texas  history  of  the  ride 
of  one  Charles  Dabney  who,  like  Paul  Revere, 
carried  the  alarm  and  at  the  eleventh  hour  brought 
deliverance  to  the  Alamo.  He  imagined  the  look 
on  Josefa' s  face,  the  sparkle  in  her  eye  when  he 
would  interpolate  the  written  record  with  the  state- 
ment that  the  daring  ride  was  due  to  love  for  a 
woman,  a  sweetheart  who  was  within  the  fort. 
This  reflection  so  cheered  his  spirits  with  its  fascina- 
tion and  charm  that  unconsciously  the  man  began  to 
whistle  a  snatch  from  a  Spanish  love-song  that  the 
senorita  had  taught  him.  The  sun  dipping  west- 
ward lit  up  the  sky,  pink,  purple,  crimson.  Dabney 
noted  the  changes  as  variegated  as  autumn  tints,  as 
paints  on  a  palette  or  the  colors  of  a  chameleon. 
His  thoughts  were  on  love,  the  unchanging  love 
that  comes  but  once  in  a  lifetime,  that  knows  no 
confines,  but  is  as  broad  as  the  prairie,  as  limitless 
as  the  sky.  The  sun  again  riveting  his  attention, 
insensibly  his  tune  changed  from  the  wild  Spanish 
strain,  teeming  with  passion,  to  that  English  lay  of 
steadfastness,  of  constancy : 

"The  heart  that  once  truly  loves  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god  when  he  sets, 
The  same  look  that  she  turned  when  he  rose." 


Concerning  Daubigney  173 

Suddenly  he  felt  his  horse  give  under  him. 
Quick  as  a  thought  he  braced  himself  in  his  stirrups 
and  reined  up  his  steed ;  then  he  urged  on  the  gray, 
but  to  no  avail;  the  horse  stumbled  again  nearly  to 
his  nose. 

"Oh,  hell!"  muttered  Dabney,  as  instantly  he 
jumped  to  the  ground.  Dropping  to  his  knee  he 
reached  up  with  his  hand,  stroking  the  gray's 
shoulder,  trying  to  inspire  confidence,  for  the  poor 
animal's  pain  kept  him  moving  in  a  restive  manner. 
His  hobbling  revealed  that  he  had  gone  lame  in  the 
left  fore  foot;  in  fact,  he  held  it  up,  limping  like  a 
lame  dog.  Dabney  threw  the  bridle  over  his  horse's 
head,  slipping  his  left  arm  through  it,  gathering  it 
tightly,  and  so  held  it  while  he  assumed  a  black- 
smith's position.  With  his  back  to  the  horse's  head 
he  grabbed  the  lame  leg  near  the  fetlock,  bringing 
the  hoof  up  between  his  legs,  holding  it  with  his 
knees  clamped  like  a  vise.  Examination  showed 
that  the  injury  was  not  to  the  hoof,  but  that  the 
pastern  joint  had  received  a  severe  wrench.  Look- 
ing down  at  the  ground  the  Virginian  perceived  that 
it  was  honeycombed,  that  it  was  a  prairie-dog 
village.  The  horse's  hoof  had  gone  into  one  of 
their  subterranean  passageways.  Dabney  was 
desperate.  He  caught  the  bridle  and  began  leading 
the  gray.  Faint  yelps  as  from  young  puppies  broke 
the  silence  of  the  evening,  the  sound  infuriating  the 
Virginian  beyond  expression  as  he  spied  several 
frightened  prairie-dogs  whisking  into  their  holes. 
The  horse  continued  to  limp  painfully ;  there  seemed 
little  chance  that  he  would  be  of  any  further  use — 


174  The  Grito 

yet  the  message  had  to  be  carried,  Travis's  appeal 
must  speed  on.  Dabney's  hope  of  saving  the 
garrison  was  implacable,  steadfast,  not  to  be  relin- 
quished; he  prayed  as  he  had  never  prayed  before, 
and  in  the  gloaming  of  the  sunset  the  prairie 
stretched  before  him,  flat,  immense,  infinite,  seem- 
ingly a  mockery.  Dabney  began  to  wonder  if  the 
fate  of  the  Alamo  were  inevitable,  inexorable, 
destined,  and  if  his  horse's  lameness  were  one  of 
those  accidents  trifling  in  itself,  yet  on  which  the 
mysterious  ways  of  Providence  seem  to  pivot  great 
issues.  This  trend  of  thought  did  not  bring  with 
it  resignation.  The  evanescence  of  his  hopes,  the 
figment  of  his  dread,  the  grinding,  nerve-racking 
consciousness  of  what  failure  on  his  part  would 
mean  to  others  was  a  contingency  that  well-nigh 
crazed  him,  for  on  the  segment  of  his  duty  per- 
formed rested  the  fate  of  the  whole  Alamo.  He 
could  not  convince  himself  that  it  was  intended  for 
evil  to  prevail,  for  the  right  to  be  overthrown.  The 
outlook  was  black,  terrible,  awful,  but  despair  bred 
a  hope  illegitimate  of  reason,  and  Dabney  did  not 
abandon  his  purpose  of  carrying  Travis's  appeal — 
he  would  take  it  if  he  had  to  walk  every  foot  of  the 
way;  when  his  strength  gave  out  he  would  crawl; 
he  would  die  before  he  would  surrender  to  circum- 
stances. Rebellion  stirred  within  him,  grappled 
with  resignation  in  mortal  combat  and  came  out 
victor,  so  that  Dabney  found  himself  almost 
running.  The  poor  gray's  limping  retarded  his 
progress,  and  convinced  that  the  horse  would  be  of 
no  further  service  to  him,  he  uncinched  his  saddle, 


Concerning  Daubigney  175 

threw  it  away,  turned  the  animal  loose,  and  sped  on 
like  a  spectre  pursued  by  destiny. 

At  times  like  this,  when  the  Virginian's  efforts 
seemed  a  disappointment,  a  failure,  current  sugges- 
tions set  in  vibration  the  secret,  the  sorrow  of  his 
life.  It  was  like  the  ringing  of  the  bells  of  buried 
Is.  It  was  as  if  a  curtain  hiding  an  old  painting 
had  suddenly  been  drawn  aside,  revealing  a  picture 
of  agony  that  one  would  prefer  not  to  see.  But 
memory's  light  was  not  to  be  extinguished ;  it  shone 
terribly  vivid,  searing  the  Virginian's  soul  with  the 
brand  of  Cain.  This  was  his  secret,  his  sorrow,  of 
which  no  one  in  Texas  knew  save  Father  Clement, 
to  whom  he  had  confided  it,  and  the  Priest  with 
pitying  charity  and  his  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart  had  held  him  blameless. 

Silent,  alert,  keen,  ready  for  anything,  Dabney 
now  pressed  on,  his  eyes  wide  open  as  if  to  catch 
some  ray  of  help,  some  glimmer  of  relief.  In  the 
distance,  like  a  speck  on  the  horizon,  he  noted  a 
black  cloud  that  momentarily  grew  larger  and 
larger.  His  experiences  on  the  plains  made  him 
quick  to  recognize  it  as  a  herd  of  buffalo  coming 
rapidly  in  his  direction.  On  they  came  with  tails 
in  air  like  spears,  their  huge  bodies  walloping  into 
one  big  mass  of  brown,  the  earth  clattering  like  a 
sounding-board  under  their  hoofs.  The  fear  that 
in  their  stampede  they  might  run  over  him  never 
once  occurred  to  Dabney's  mind.  In  their  mad 
rush  they  swerved  eastward,  clumsily  galloping 
with  animal  instinct  far  from  the  prairie-dog  village. 
The  cause  of  their  excitement  was  explained  when 


176  The  Grito 

a  band  of  Indians  hove  in  sight.  The  savages, 
having  singled  out  their  game,  were  closing  in  rapid 
circles  around  a  big  bull  that  had  become  separated 
from  the  affrighted  herd.  His  bulky  frame  was 
already  porcupined  with  arrows  and  a  powerful 
brave  was  not  long  in  finishing  the  conquest.  With 
a  bellow  that  echoed  afar,  the  buffalo  gave  up  the 
battle. 

The  Virginian  involuntarily  had  become  inter- 
ested in  the  spectacle,  and  the  Indians,  ever  watch- 
ful, had  already  spied  him.  To  Dabney's  surprise 
they  approached  without  shooting  a  single  arrow. 
The  big  brave  that  had  killed  the  buffalo  seemed 
their  leader.  Not  a  flutter  of  fear  did  Josefa's  lover 
feel  as  he  confronted  them,  though  his  patriotism 
rebelled  at  the  probability  of  his  life  being  uselessly 
sacrificed  when  Texas  stood  in  such  need  of 
defenders,  of  soldiers.  There  was  a  possibility, 
slim  as  a  spider's  web,  that  from  these  Indians  he 
might  obtain  a  horse,  and  this  thought  caused  his 
heart  to  thrill.  If  this  proved  not  true,  if  he  could 
not  carry  Travis's  appeal  and  save  Josefa,  then  the 
sooner  death  came  the  more  ready  he  would 
welcome  it.  His  stoicism  was  supreme  as  he  waved 
to  the  redskins  and  proffered  his  powder  horn  and 
gun  to  their  Chief.  Dabney's  calmness,  together 
with  his  recognition  of  their  power,  seemed  to  please 
the  savages,  who  appreciated  he  was  not  a  coward. 
The  Chief  motioned  him  to  keep  his  belongings, 
saying  in  his  own  tongue: 

"My  white  brother  is  not  a  squaw." 


Concerning  Daubigney  177 

Then  tapping  his  breast  that  covered  lungs  like 
a  smithy's  bellows,  he  imparted  the  information  that 
he  was  a  "Big  Chief." 

In  a  patois,  part  Spanish  and  half  English,  Dabney 
asked  him  if  his  nation  were  at  war  with  the  Ameri- 
cans, for  he  knew  the  Mexicans  were  trying  to  stir 
up  the  Indians  to  hostility.  The  redskin  shook  his 
head,  grunted  a  negative  and  sneeringly  added : 

"Me  no  Campeachy — me  Comanche;  big  Injun, 
pale  face  friend."  And  pointing  to  the  plume  that 
floated  from  his  bonnet  of  eagle  feathers,  Big 
Terrapin  continued:  "Little  squaw  give  it  me." 

When  Dabney  understood  that  this  reference  was 
to  Josefa,  he  at  once  told  of  her  danger,  of  the  Mexi- 
cans besieging  the  fort  and  of  his  journeying  in 
pursuit  of  aid,  then  of  the  accident  to  his  horse. 

The  Chief  listened  attentively,  imperturbably.  He 
already  knew  of  Santa  Anna's  invasion  and  for  that 
reason  was  not  going  back  to  Bexar,  but  was  on  the 
way  to  the  land  of  their  vassals,  the  Campeachys. 
Anticipating  the  request  the  Virginian  would  make 
of  him,  Big  Terrapin  in  a  manner  courtly  and  grave, 
though  it  loses  much  of  its  beauty  by  being  inter- 
preted in  English,  said : 

"The  Comanches  owning  all  the  wild  horses  on 
the  plain,  it  is  the  pleasure  of  their  Chief  to  supply 
the  lost  messenger  with  a  better  pony,  for  the  pale 
face  needs  four  legs  to  cross  the  country  of  the 
Comanches,  while  his  red  brother  with  only  two  can 
equal  the  deer  as  a  runner,  and  only  rides  when 
wishing  to  go  with  the  speed  of  the  west  wind." 


178  The  Grito 

But  the  Indian  would  not  hear  of  Dabney's 
leaving  them  until  he  had  first  partaken  of  the 
buffalo  feast  that  was  being  prepared.  The  meat 
was  being  jerked  on  two  huge  spits  in  a  way  that 
would  have  tickled  the  palate  of  a  gourmand.  Dab- 
ney  had  never  felt  less  like  eating;  however,  being 
wise  in  the  ways  of  the  plain,  he  feared  to  offend  Big 
Terrapin  if  he  declined  his  hospitality. 

The  Comanches  had  spread  around  their  camp- 
fire  their  lariats  of  horse  hair,  aiming  to  form  a 
corral  to  keep  off  insects  and  reptiles.  The  ruddy 
glow  of  the  blazing  fire  silhouetted  the  Chief  like  a 
statue  in  bronze,  as  he  sat  on  a  wolfs  skin.  His 
war  bonnet  was  pushed  back  from  his  high  fore- 
head, the  white  ostrich  plume  Josefa  had  given  him 
fell  in  -marked  contrast  to  the  coarse  black  locks 
about  his  neck.  As  usual  he  wore  his  leather  shirt 
bedecked  with  fringe,  dyed  vermillion.  Dabney's 
attitude  presented  a  vast  contrast.  He  was  stretched 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  his  eyes  shielded  by  his 
hat,  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head,  the  picture  of 
utter  weariness. 

The  wind  wafting  a  whiff  from  the  broiling  meat 
caused  Big  Terrapin  to  mumble  something  about 
being  hungry,  but  so  occupied  was  Dabney  with 
thoughts  of  the  Alamo  and  Josefa  that  he  did  not 
hear  the  Chief,  and  neither  did  he  hear  a  curious, 
clicking  rattle  that  sounded  alarmingly  near.  The 
Indian's  ear,  though,  caught  the  warning,  and  quick 
as  a  flash  he  drew  the  rapier  the  Priest  had  given 
him,  severing  the  rattler's  head  just  as  the  snake, 
having  hissed,  sprang  at  the  Virginian.  While  his 


Concerning  Daubigney  1?9 

veins  swelled  and  his  nostrils  distended,  with  that 
superstitious  foreboding  to  which  the  savage  is 
prone,  Big  Terrapin,  using  the  point  of  the  sword, 
straightened  out  the  wriggling  body  so  that  Dabney 
might  view  its  length — the  snake  counted  twenty- 
one  rattles  beside  the  button. 

The  Indian's  eyes  now  reflected  a  new  interest; 
like  the  primitive  man  his  language  was  simple  but 
with  the  wisdom  of  ages  in  his  words : 

"Ugh!"  grunted  he,  shaking  his  head,  "Death 
lurks  in  the  way." 

Dabney  was  then  urged  to  change  his  course,  for 
the  hiss  of  a  serpent  was  explained  as  a  warning, 
and  that  unless  it  was  heeded  an  awful  death  would 
overtake  him. 

The  Virginian,  beholding  the  rattler  lying  dead, 
and  realizing  that  but  for  the  Indian's  intervention 
the  venom  would  now  be  poisoning  his  blood,  felt 
a  shudder  pass  over  his  frame,  and  he  began  won- 
dering how  to  repay  such  a  service.  Removing 
from  his  hand  his  signet  ring,  Dabney  pressed  it  to 
his  lips  as  one  kissing  a  Bible  when  taking  an  oath ; 
then  handing  it  to  the  Chief  begged  him  to  accept 
it,  explaining  it  was  the  greatest  gift  he  could  bestow 
upon  any  one.  Closely  scrutinizing  the  ring,  the 
Indian  pointed  to  the  crest,  asking  Dabney  what  it 
meant.  The  Virginian  answered  simply  that  it  was 
his  totem,  for  a  feeling  of  sadness  so  pervaded  him 
that  he  cared  not  to  talk.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
Daubigney  motto:  "He  conquers  that  overcomes 
himself." 


180  The  Grito 

Notwithstanding  Big  Terrapin's  counsel,  as  soon 
as  the  Virginian  had  partaken  of  food  he  begged  to 
set  forth  on  his  journey.  The  land  was  rougher, 
more  pebbly,  with  here  and  there  clumps  of  chap- 
arral. The  moon  sailed  on  a  sea  of  blue,  with 
white-capped  cloudlets,  and  with  no  guide  save  the 
stars  and  his  senses,  Dabney  pressed  forward.  The 
rhythm  of  his  steed  seemed  to  double  and  treble 
itself  in  the  soughing  of  the  night  wind.  The 
Indian's  horse  carried  him  in  a  swift  canter,  and 
the  Virginian,  patting  the  coarse,  rough  mane, 
whispered : 

"Thank  God,  we  may  yet  do  it — we  must  do  it!" 

And  the  strong  little  pony,  reeking  with  foam 
and  sweat,  snorted  as  if  in  affirmation,  as  on  he 
went,  fleet  as  an  antelope,  taking  the  ground  with 
a  long,  sweeping,  steady  lope,  Dabney' s  body  lying 
low  and  close  to  the  animal's  neck,  his  eyes  shining 
with  eagerness. 

Only  Divine  penetration  could  have  told  all  that 
was  passing  in  his  mind — Josefa  might  yet  be 
rescued,  might  yet  be  his! 

And  thus  was  Travis's  death-cry  brought  to  Sam 
Houston  by  a  rider  whose  horse  dropped  dead  from 
exhaustion  as  he  entered  the  little  village  of  Wash- 
ington on  the  Brazos. 

****** 

The  siege  had  already  ended. 

The  Alamo  had  fallen — but  Charles  Dabney  knew 
it  not;  he  simply  knew  he  had  performed  the  duty 
intrusted  to  him,  that  he  had  done  his  best,  and  with 
the  consciousness  a  great  peace  stole  into  his  tired 
heart. 


'    .  CHAPTER  XVI 

MEXICAN   VERACITY 

Dabney,  having  delivered  Travis's  appeal,  im- 
mediately set  forth  to  return  to  San  Antonio,  fol- 
lowing a  different  route.  All  the  country  through 
which  he  passed  showed  the  terrible  dread  the 
Texans  felt  at  Santa  Anna's  invasion.  Settlers 
were  leaving  their  homes,  taking  their  wives  and 
little  ones  to  places  of  safety. 

When  the  Colorado  River  was  reached  a  heart- 
rending sight  met  the  Virginian's  eyes.  It  was  a 
woman,  with  several  children,  seated  in  a  wagon, 
gazing  at  the  water  in  which  her  husband  had  just 
perished.  Before  trusting  to  drive  his  family 
across,  this  man  had  waded  into  the  stream  to  test 
its  depth ;  an  alligator  had  seized  him,  dragging  him 
forever  from  view.  Other  refugees  happening 
along,  the  bereaved  ones  joined  their  company  and 
so  continued  their  journey.  Some  of  the  fugitives 
told  Dabney  the  news  of  the  Alamo.  Though  a 
dire  sense  of  apprehension  seized  his  soul,  their 
words  failed  to  carry  conviction — it  was  too  terrible 
to  believe,  too  awful  to  be  true. 

"How  do  you  know  the  fort  has  already  fallen  ?" 
the  Virginian  asked,  while  he  held  his  breath, 
hoping  the  proof  would  be  a  supposition.  He 


182  The  Grito 

looked  jaded,  worn  out,  ill;  black  lines  about  his 
eyes  made  them  appear  sunken,  almost  like  sockets 
in  a  skeleton. 

"Know !"  disdainfully  vociferated  a  frontiersman, 
"by  God,  I  have  jist  parted  with  Deaf  Smith,  him 
whar  met  that  poor  woman  that  seed  it  all  with  her 
own  eyes  and  was  ther  only  one  left  ter  tell  ther 
tale.  Smith  seed  her  safe  ter  Gonzales,  whar  thar's 
plenty  of  wailing,  fer  nearly  every  last  man  from 
thar  whar  volunteer'd  left  a  widow  behind  him." 

"A  woman,  you  say,  was  saved  ?" 

"Yes,  ther  wife  of  one  of  ther  officers  whar  was 
killed;  disremember  his  name,  but  her  an'  her  little 
gal  was  ther  only  ones  whar  escaped.  Every  other 
soul  was  wiped  clean  out  an'  that  devil  Santy  Anny 
jist  spared  her  ter  tell  ther  Texans  so.  I  be  dern 
if  yer  catch  me  here  longer,  in  a  land  whar  Satan 
is  let  loose.  I'm  gwine  ter  get  shet  o'  him  'fore  he 
gits  a  chance  ter  roast  me !" 

The  frontiersman  then,  as  if  there  were  not  a 
moment  to  lose,  struck  his  horse  and  was  off,  leav- 
ing Dabney  fully  convinced  that  the  description  he 
had  heard  fitted  none  other  than  Mother  Dickinson. 

The  Alamo  had  fallen ! 

Josefa,  then,  was  dead ;  dead ;  dead ! 

She  who  had  been  so  bright,  so  beauteous,  so 
lovable,  so  harmless,  plucked  like  a  prairie  flower 
by  the  relentless  hand  of  war.  The  Virginian's  love 
for  her  was  part  of  his  being,  pure,  marvelous, 
divine — a  gift  from  Heaven,  the  breath  of  the  LOVE 
that  vitalizes  the  human  heart  with  immortality. 
The  loss  of  Josefa  seemed  the  severing  of  his  soul ; 


Mexican  Veracity  183 

the  good,  the  noble,  the  best  that  was  in  him 
belonged  to  her,  and  with  her  it  ended.  The  shock 
had  paralyzed  it,  killed  it,  stamped  it  out  forever, 
and  in  its  stead  loomed  vengeance,  hatred — sombre, 
ineffaceable,  portentous.  There  was  no  thought  of 
restraint,  no  desire  to  curb  his  rancor — fierce,  bitter, 
vindictive.  Dead — dead — dead!  Every  footfall 
of  Dabney's  horse  seemed  to  repeat  it,  to  emphasize 
it.  The  plain  reverberated  it  in  a  way  as  hollow, 
as  comfortless,  as  grating  as  if  it  were  a  human 
voice  trying  to  give  utterance  to  sympathy,  to  solace 
the  stricken  when  the  wine-press  must  be  trodden 
alone.  The  clatter  of  his  horse's  hoofs  became 
slower,  more  like  a  funeral  dirge,  breathing — grief, 
misery,  agony,  revenge!  Dabney's  brain  ceased  to 
think — there  was  a  terrible  dry  sob  in  his  heart,  but 
no  tears  came  to  his  relief.  Anguish  had  frozen 
them,  had  petrified  all  feeling,  but  sorrow  does  not 
kill;  it  imposes  a  worse  sentence — life.  The  inhu- 
manity of  ambition,  the  greed,  the  selfishness,  the 
cruelty  of  Santa  Anna  recoiled  upon  Dabney  with 
terrible  force,  and  yet  the  Virginian's  fury  was  that 
of  impotence ;  it  was  the  rage  of  helplessness  before 
a  despot  who  was  rampant,  paramount. 

But  in  Josefa's  lover's  breast  a  hope  leaped  and 
stood  firm;  a  resolution  formed  itself;  it  was  the 
spirit  of  Travis  incarnate  that  voiced  the  sentiment, 
"Kill  them  as  they  kill  our  companions;  kill  them 
as  they  kill  us,  then  what  matter  that  our  lives  be 
lost — "  Dabney  wheeled  his  horse  and  turned 
toward  Goliad,  determined  to  cast  his  lot  with 


184  The  Grito 

Fannin' s  command,  guessing  that  would  likely  be 
the  next  the  Mexicans  would  attack. 

He  was  right. 

When  Goliad  was  reached,  the  Virginian  found 
that  he  was  just  in  time  to  join  the  Americans  who, 
acting  from  orders  from  Sam  Houston,  were  pre- 
paring to  quit  the  presidio,  the  old  Mission  of 
Espiritu  Santo,  which  Fannin  had  rechristened  Fort 
Defiance,  for  the  certainty  that  General  Ramon 
Urrea  was  approaching  made  them  anxious  to  leave, 
lest  their  fate  be  similar  to  the  garrison  of  the 
Alamo.  They  therefore  began  a  march  toward 
Victoria  on  the  Guadalupe. 

Through  a  dense  fog  the  wagon-train  crossed  the 
San  Antonio  River,  experiencing  much  trouble  in  get- 
ting ordnance  over,  due  not  only  to  the  steep  banks 
but  to  the  rapid  current  of  the  stream.  This  accom- 
plished, it  was  found  necessary  to  either  rest  the  oxen 
or  abandon  the  artillery.  The  sky  being  clouded, 
when  a  low  rumble  as  of  distant  thunder  sounded  on 
the  air  the  Texans  did  not  recognize  it  as  the  thud 
of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  dull,  even  tramp  of  armed 
men,  until  suddenly  the  searchlight  of  a  noon-day 
sun  glittered  on  the  gay  uniforms  of  the  approach- 
ing Mexican  soldiery. 

Urrea's  men  instantly  halted,  uncertain,  sus- 
picious. They,  too,  were  surprised  at  this  encoun- 
ter. They  had  thought  to  catch  the  Texans  in  the 
fort  like  a  death-trap.  Their  pause  gave  Fannin 
time  to  form  his  men  into  a  hollow  square.  It  was 
the  best  he  could  do,  for  the  Texans  were  on  an 
open  plain,  rather  lower  than  the  ground  occupied 


Mexican  Veracity  185 

by  the  enemy.  The  confronting  forces  pictured  a 
vast  contrast.  Fannin's  men  were  volunteers  from 
Alabama,  Louisiana,  Georgia,  Tennessee  and  Ken- 
tucky— imbued  with  the  same  courage  that  enabled 
their  sires  to  free  the  land  from  Indian  and  British 
foe.  The  blood  in  their  veins  and  the  love  of  liberty 
inspired  them  with  courage,  though  idea  of  resist- 
ance was  a  chimera,  for  a  child  could  have  foretold 
the  result.  The  clanking  of  metal  horse  trappings, 
the  rattle  of  Mexican  cavalry  accoutrements,  the 
disparity  in  numbers  that  no  valor  could  resist — 
such  was  the  army  of  Urrea.  Go  to  history  for  the 
details  of  that  battle,  for  the  account  of  how  the 
little  handful  of  Texans,  five  hundred  in  all,  were 
pitted  against  seven  hundred  cavalry  and  a  thousand 
of  infantry;  but  General  Urrea  had  little  ammuni- 
tion with  him  and  his  artillery  was  a  day's  march 
behind. 

"Let  us  win  or  die  in  the  attempt,"  called  Fannin, 
"for  might  doesn't  make  right  and  force  doesn't 
always  prevail!" 

At  his  words  a  cheer  went  up  from  his  soldiers, 
for  the  ardor  of  youth  rendered  them  hopeful,  which 
has  proven  of  vital  force  in  many  a  conflict.  For 
four  hours  they  bravely  withstood  the  Mexicans — 
these  Texan  volunteers,  scarce  out  of  their  teens, 
brawny  youths  and  stalwart  striplings,  whom  sym- 
pathy had  enlisted  under  the  banner  of  the  Lone 
Star.  Like  Titans  they  held  the  enemy  at  bay  until 
their  cannon,  from  lack  of  water,  became  too  hot 
for  use.  Their  position  then  grew  desperate;  the 
Mexicans  were  too  strong  for  them,  yet  still  these 


186  The  Grito 

patriots  fought,  though  the  revel  of  death  had 
begun,  and  when  darkness  fell  on  the  scene,  closing 
the  day's  hostilities,  the  army  of  Urrea  had  not  won 
a  victory,  for  the  Texans  remained  unbeaten. 

All  of  Fannin' s  teams  having  stampeded  while 
the  battle  raged,  there  was  no  possible  way  for  his 
men  to  retreat  during  the  night,  for  many  were 
wounded  and  the  unhurt  would  not  desert  them. 
The  Texan  camp  now  presented  a  heartrending 
scene.  There  was  no  water  to  satisfy  the  thirst  of 
the  wounded  or  to  moisten  the  parched  lips  of  the 
dying,  whose  groans  were  agonizing  to  hear.  The 
morrow  brought  artillery  and  ammunition  supplies 
to  the  Mexicans,  but  no  help  to  the  little  band. 

Colonel  Fannin,  who  had  been  severely  wounded, 
rallied  his  men  and  left  it  to  them  to  decide  whether 
they  would  surrender.  Some  violently  opposed  it, 
but  the  majority  thought  it  useless  to  hold  out 
longer.  They  were  not  whipped,  but  overpowered ; 
supreme  courage  could  not  cope  with  such  over- 
whelming force.  So  the  Texans  raised  a  white 
flag  and  Fannin  went  forth  to  treat  with  Urrea, 
calling  out : 

"Boys,  if  I  can't  get  an  honorable  surrender  I'll 
come  back  and  we'll  all  die  together." 

After  consultation,  Ramon  Urrea  agreed  in  a 
stipulation  written  in  both  Spanish  and  English  that 
the  Texans  were  to  be  treated  as  prisoners-of-war 
according  to  the  usages  of  civilized  nations.  Fannin 
was  also  verbally  promised  that  the  volunteers 
should  be  returned  to  /the  States,  provided  they 
pledged  themselves  not  to  further  aid  the  Texan 


Mexican  Veracity  187 

rebellion.  These  terms  meeting  with  the  approval 
of  the  little  band,  they  gave  up  their  arms  and  under 
Mexican  escort  returned  to  Goliad,  where,  as 
prisoners-of-war,  they  were  confined  in  the  old 
Mission. 

The  damp,  chill  atmosphere  of  the  church,  through 
the  narrow  windows  of  which  the  sun  filtered 
slowly,  had  a  depressing  effect  on  the  spirits  of 
the  captives.  They  believed,  however,  the  Mex- 
icans were  sincere  in  their  agreement,  and  that  as 
soon  as  it  could  be  arranged  they  were  to  be  put  on 
boats  and  sent  to  New  Orleans.  Nevertheless  the 
men  were  growing  homesick.  The  days  dragged 
by  with  snail-like  pace.  Their  only  food  was  beef 
without  salt  or  bread,  and  crowded  together  in  the 
old  adobe  church  building  their  condition  was  most 
uncomfortable.  Like  schoolboys  awaiting  a  holi- 
day, the  time  of  their  release  seemed  long  in  coming. 

Saturday  night  came — a  week  having  elapsed  since 
their  imprisonment.  The  men's  talk  ran  on  their 
home-going;  Fannin  spoke  of  his  wife  and  little 
ones ;  some  of  the  volunteers,  trying  to  forget  their 
surroundings,  sought  to  drown  nostalgia  in  jest,  as 
youths  are  prone  to  do.  Suddenly  a  Georgian  took 
from  his  pocket  a  flute,  and  no  sooner  had  the  first 
familiar  note  sounded  on  the  air  than  a  rich,  clear 
tenor  caught  up  the  strain. 

Immediately  all  was  still. 

The  tune  was  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

Carried  away  by  feeling,  every  voice  lent  its  aid 
in  joining  in  the  chorus,  all  save  one — and  that  was 
Dabney's.  With  head  bowed  in  his  hands  he 


188  The  Grito 

listened,  overwhelmed  by  sadness.  The  Virginian 
realized  his  life  would  never  be  a  harmony;  there 
had  been  a  discord,  never  to  be  forgotten,  never  to 
be  corrected;  and  besides  there  was  a  note  missing 
that  he  felt  would  have  filled  him  with  ineffable 
sweetness,  that  would  have  made  of  life  a  psalm. 
It  was  Josefa,  her  love  for  him,  his  love  for  her, 
blended  together;  but  fate  had  played  roughly,  the 
string  had  snapped,  and  Charles  Dabney's  heart 
would  never  be  the  same.  The  words  the  volun- 
teers were  singing  seemed  to  catch  the  sighing  of 
his  soul  and  set  to  jangling  his  old  sorrow,  his  old 
secret.  The  echo  of  the  music  came  to  him,  dis- 
quieting as  all  echoes  are,  for  with  him  it  breathed 
the  reality  of  bitter  experience.  Clearly  he  heard 
vocalized  what  had  often  rung  in  his  ears : 

"A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere." 

The  boyish  voices  went  on,  making  the  old 
Mission  ring  with  melody  such  as  it  had  never 
known  before.  It  was  the  music  of  trusting  faith 
sung  by  Anglo-Saxons. 

Dabney,  listening,  felt  memory  had  no  confines, 
heart  ache  no  boundary,  misery  no  limit.  He  won- 
dered if  this  was  why  Josefa  had  been  taken  from 
him — if  this,  his  old  secret,  his  old  sorrow,  was  the 
keynote  of  his  present  terrible  anguish. 

The  walls  reverberated  the  soldiers'  song : 

"The  birds  singing  sweetly  that  came  to  my  call, 
Give  me  them  and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer  than  all, 
Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home." 


Mexican  Veracity 

The  peace  of  mind!  That  was  what  Dabney 
knew  he  had  lost,  and  with  it  had  gone  youth  and 
happiness,  even  though  the  years  had  not,  for  the 
secret  he  had  hugged  to  him  like  the  Spartan  boy 
had  the  fox,  had  not  hurt  his  vitality,  though  it  had 
preyed  upon  his  spirit.  When  the  last  words  of  the 
song  died  away  many  an  eye  was  dim,  and  off  in 
the  sacristy  of  the  old  Mission  knelt  a  man  alone  in 
his  agony.  The  cry  of  the  spirit,  the  cry  of  the 
forsaken  surged  to  his  lips,  and  went  back,  leaving 
only  a  moan  to  tell  of  his  sorrow.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a  little  brown  leathern  case,  his  sole  possession, 
the  one  relic  of  his'  life  in  Virginia.  It  was  a 
daguerreotype. 

The  moon  percolating  the  dust-stained  window 
did  not  reveal  Dabney's  face,  but  its  faint  beams 
coruscated  the  gold  in  his  hair  as  he  bent  and  kissed 
it  before  replacing  it  in  the  pocket  just  above  his 
heart. 

The  next  day  was  Palm  Sunday;  the  morning 
dawned  clear,  bright  and  beautiful.  In  the  early  days 
of  the  Mission,  in  token  of  Christ's  triumphal  pro- 
cession, it  had  been  a  custom  of  the  fathers  to  lead 
the  Indian  converts  to  worship,  all  carrying  boughs, 
typical  of  the  branches  strewn  in  the  Messiah's  way, 
and  Nature,  seeming  in  accord  with  this  holy  service, 
mingled  the  perfumes  of  spring  with  the  redolence  of 
incense.  A  different  atmosphere  now  pervaded  the 
sanctuary.  It  was  the  breath  of  war.  The  old  edifice, 
consecrated  to  the  Prince  of  Peace,  witnessed  Mexi- 
can soldiers,  with  unsuppressed  oaths,  hurriedly 
forming  the  Americans  into  a  procession. 


190  The  Grito 

Believing  this  was  the  day  of  their  emancipation 
and  that  the  transports  awaited  them,  readily  the 
remnant  of  the  Goliad  garrison  stepped  into  place. 
The  building  rang  with  their  cheers  and  huzzaing, 
for  all  hearts  were  light  at  the  thought  of  being 
restored  to  loved  ones — all  except  the  Virginian's. 
Far,  far  away  the  world  he  had  known  was  moving 
on  in  its  time-worn  ruts,  and  now  he  was  to  return 
to  it  when  his  step  had  grown  accustomed  to  the 
freedom  of  the  plain.  Like  the  wretched  corpse  that 
has  suffered  shipwreck  is  given  up  to  an  unfriendly 
shore,  Dabney  felt  that  it  would  have  been  better  to 
have  gone  down  in  the  swirling  flood.  But  the  joyous- 
ness  that  inflated  the  hearts  of  the  other  volunteers 
would  be  impossible  to  describe.  They  laughed, 
jested,  and  even  sung  as  they  marched.  Hope  was 
rampant;  the  prospect  of  liberty  was  intoxicating; 
the  realization  of  enjoying  the  freedom  of  the  open 
air  made  them  drunk  with  delight. 

The  line  went  single  file;  by  the  side  of  each  of 
Fannin's  men  walked  a  Mexican  guard,  armed  with 
musket  and  bayonet.  After  having  marched  nearly 
a  mile,  the  command  to  halt  rang  out  on  the  air  and 
the  Mexicans  were  ordered  to  face  to  the  right,  just 
as  Charles  Dabney  shouted : 

"My  God !  boys,  they  are  going  to  shoot  us." 

Simultaneously  came  the  report  of  musketry — and 
the  remnant  of  the  Goliad  garrison,  some  three  hun- 
dred men,  went  down,  their  writhing  forms  clutched 
in  death's  grapple  on  the  Texan  plain ;  but  with  the 
tread  of  heroes  their  spirits  sought  Valhalla  for  the 
bivouac  of  the  long,  long  night. 


Mexican  Veracity  191 

A  ball  striking  above  the  Virginian's  heart,  he 
was  among  the  first  to  fall,  and  as  he  tottered  the 
cry  rose  from  his  lips : 

"Long  live  Texas'  freedom!" 

Then  he  lay  still.  A  Mexican  started  to  run  him 
through  with  his  bayonet,  but  there  was  something 
on  Dabney's  face  that  restrained  him.  It  was  the 
look  of  a  martyr,  a  saint. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A   DISAPPEARANCE 

The  mental  strain  to  which  Josefa  had  been  so 
long  subjected  terminated  in  fever.  As  she  tossed 
in  her  delirium,  one  thought  seemed  ever  present 
with  her — that  she  was  forsaken  by  Daubigney. 

"O  Carlos!"  she  would  cry  out,  "where  are 
you?" 

Then  in  heartrending  tones  she  would  plead, 
"Take  me  with  you."  While  anon  and  again  the 
senorita  would  point  in  the  air,  saying,  "Oh,  how 
it  glitters ;  take  it  away ;  don't  let  it  strike  Carlos !" 
For  her  mind,  retaining  vividly  its  last  impression, 
reverted  always  to  Big  Terrapin's  flashing  the  rapier 
in  imitation  of  his  slaying  the  rattlesnake,  although 
Josefa  understood  not  he  had  saved  her  sweetheart's 
life,  but  concluded  exactly  the  contrary. 

During  her  sickness  the  Priest,  assisted  by  Sefiora 
Alvarez,  with  whom  he  had  obtained  lodging, 
nursed  her  faithfully,  his  sad  face  watching  with 
paternal  love  every  change  in  his  godchild's 
condition.  Little  thought  was  given  to  public 
happenings,  for  Father  Clement's  own  private  grief 
engrossing  his  heart  and  his  time,  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  Americans  confined  in  the  old  Mission  of 
Espiritu  Santo. 


A  Disappearance  193 

On  Saturday  evening,  however,  Josefa  was  bet- 
ter; she  had  recovered  consciousness,  and  so  next 
morning  the  Priest,  impressed  with  the  fact  that 
the  day  was  Palm  Sunday,  early  arose,  and  after 
his  orisons  went  for  a  walk  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air 
and  the  privilege  of  communing  with  nature's  God. 
Despite  the  sunlight,  a  preternatural  chilliness  crept 
into  his  veins,  which  he  attributed  to  the  earliness 
of  the  day,  though  it  seemed  as  if  evil  were  afloat  in 
the  atmosphere.  As  he  crossed  the  plaza,  what  was 
his  surprise  to  hear  his  name  called,  and  turning  to 
look  the  familiar  figure  of  Ramon  Urrea  met  his 
gaze. 

"You  are  early  abroad,  Padre.  What  are  you 
doing  here  and  how  is  my  wilful  little  niece?" 

When  the  Jesuit  told  him  of  Josefa's  illness,  the 
uncle  showed  no  sign  of  distress. 

"So  she  has  been  sick,  has  she?  Well,  it  serves 
her  right  for  disobeying  me  and  pinning  her  faith 
to  aliens.  But  by  all  the  saints  she  shall  yet  marry 
Castrillo! — that  is,  if  he  will  have  her,  for  I  have 
settled  all  old  scores  today  in  sending  the  Americano 
where  he  will  never  come  back.  Caraniba!" 

The  Priest  bent  a  searching  gaze  on  the  officer's 
face,  and  a  presentiment  of  danger  brought  irrita- 
bility to  his  voice  as  he  said : 

"Speak  plainly,  Ramon  Urrea;  I  have  neither 
patience  nor  time  for  riddles." 

With  a  satanic  leer  in  his  blood-shot  eyes,  the 
Mexican  hissed  between  his  teeth : 


194  The  Grito 

"You  needn't  turn  white  about  the  gills,  for  you 
are  a  moment  too  late  to  confess  your  friend  Carlos 
Daubigney,  whom  I  have  just  ordered  shot." 

"Mother  of  God!"  exclaimed  the  Priest,  while 
his  breath  came  hard. 

"Cierto!"  Josef  a' s  uncle  continued,  "he  was  one 
of  the  Goliad  gang." 

Father  Clement  stood  as  one  petrified,  while 
Urrea  continued  with  a  laugh  maniacal  to  hear : 

"The  idiots!  They  really  believed  when  they 
surrendered  that  we  would  heed  their  terms  and 
send  them  back  to  the  United  States,  as  though  it  was 
not  General  Santa  Anna's  intention  to  have  all 
gringos  shot."  And  he  finished  with  a  vile  burst  of 
profanity. 

"Accursed  be  such  a  government!"  declared 
Father  Clement  as  he  listened  and  heard  for  the 
first  time  a  hint  of  the  massacre. 

Never  had  he  doubted  from  Josefa's  account  of 
the  rapier  and  the  ring  that  the  Virginian  had 
already  met  his  death  at  the  hand  of  the  Comanche. 
Believing  all  Indian's  treacherous,  the  Jesuit  ex- 
plained Big  Terrapin's  kindness  to  them  as  due  to 
gifts,  for  the  old  Frenchman's  acquaintance  with  the 
Chief  was  too  superficial  to  recognize  the  nobility 
elevating  this  savage  above  his  race.  Learning 
from  Ramon  Urrea  that  Charles  Dabney  was  still 
alive  and  being  marched  off  to  be  shot,  the  Priest 
became  like  a  madman  and  bounded  away  like  a 
bloodhound  loosened  from  the  leash.  He  had 
accepted  Dabney 's  supposed  fate  without  a  murmur, 


A  Disappearance  195 

meekly  submissive  to  the  inevitable,  but  this  was 
different;  this  was  treachery;  this  was  assassination, 
and  the  fury  of  the  Frenchman  knew  no  bounds. 

Without  any  definite  plan  the  Jesuit  rushed  on. 
Senora  Alvarez,  having  already  heard  of  the  fate 
awaiting  the  Texan  volunteers,  had  quitted  her 
house,  and  with  her  long  black  hair  streaming 
around  her,  she  looked  like  a  goddess  of  wrath  as 
she  called  down  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  on  such 
a  butcher  as  Santa  Anna,  for  though  a  Mexican 
herself,  she  was  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  heart  to 
feel  for  woe.  The  Priest  only  tarried  a  minute  to 
caution  her,  as  she  valued  Josefa's  life,  not  to 
breathe  a  word  of  this  atrocity  to  her;  then  on  he 
sped,  his  anguish  alternating  in  prayers  and  curses. 
The  taste  of  man's  cruelty,  villainy,  perfidy  was  gall 
in  his  mouth.  Passing  the  Mission  he  spied  a  horse 
tied,  whose  finely  decorated  trappings  indicated  it  as 
the  property  of  a  Mexican  officer.  Unfastening  the 
rein,  quickly  the  Priest  leaped  into  the  saddle  and 
broke  into  a  thundering  gallop.  The  minutes  that 
followed  were  of  furious  haste;  the  horse,  flogged 
into  a  terrific  gait,  went  with  head  bent  low  and  neck 
stretched  out — it  was  a  terrible  ride,  the  landscape 
became  a  blur,  the  Priest  saw  only  through  the  clear 
atmosphere  the  black  column  ahead.  Just  as  he  suc- 
ceeded in  coming  up  with  them  the  peal  of  musketry 
rang  in  his  ear — and  Father  Clement  must  need  seek 
Dabney  among  the  dead. 

Riding  up  to  the  commanding  officer  the  Jesuit 
spoke : 


196  The  Grito 

"I  am  a  priest  of  the  Church.  A  friend  dear  to 
me  has  been  shot;  may  I  have  his  body  for  burial ?" 

"If  you  can  find  it,  but  hasten,  for  General  Santa 
Anna  has  ordered  these  Texans  burned  like  the  dogs 
of  the  Alamo." 

With  a  shudder  Father  Clement  turned  away. 
Dismounting,  he  threw  the  bridle  over  his  arm,  and 
leading  the  horse,  approached  the  massacred.  When 
one  seeks  to  identify  a  friend  among  three  hundred 
dead  men  the  task  is  not  an  easy  one.  Bending  to 
peer  at  the  faces  of  the  slain,  the  tears  gushed  from 
Father  Clement's  eyes  when  he  saw  how  young  they 
were.  One  soldier  after  another  was  turned  over, 
but  not  until  he  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the 
line  did  he  find  Dabney. 

The  Virginian  lay  partly  hidden  by  a  volunteer 
who  had  fallen  across  him.  Dragging  the  corpse 
off,  the  Priest  bent  over  Charles,  who  was  covered 
with  gore  from  the  comrade  stretched  above  him. 
Dabney  was  a  ghastly  sight,  for  blood  clammy  and 
wet  had  gathered  and  welled  and  matted  the  curly, 
sunlit  hair  that  Father  Clement  knew  crowned  no 
other  brow  save  Josefa's  love.  As  he  bent  over 
him,  the  Virginian  blinked.  Seeing  he  was  still 
alive,  the  Frenchman  whispered: 

"Do  not  fear,  mon  ami." 

Recognizing  his  voice,  instantly  Dabney  opened 
his  eyes. 

"I  am  not  hurt  much,"  he  said.  "I  was  feigning 
death,  hoping  to  crawl  away  when  night  came  on." 

"Silence!"  commanded  the  Jesuit,  "and  feign 
death  still,  that  I  may  save  you." 


A  Disappearance  197 

By  an  effort  well-nigh  superhuman,  the  Priest 
lifted  Daubigney  and  threw  him  across  the  horse. 
Then,  leading  the  animal,  he  wended  his  way  toward 
the  marsh.  Nobody  hindered  him,  seeing  he  was  a 
priest,  for  the  Mexicans  were  already  busy  collecting 
brush  wherewith  to  burn  the  slain. 

When  Dabney  heard  that  Josefa  still  lived,  light 
and  darkness,  heaven  and  earth  seemed  to  swim  in 
chaos  before  his  mind.  He  wished  to  rush  to  her, 
to  see  her  with  his  own  eyes,  to  hold  her  little  brown 
hands,  to  kiss  her  ruby-red  lips,  to  satisfy  himself 
that  his  senses  were  not  playing  him  false;  that  he 
heard  aright,  that  she  really  lived,  breathed,  and  was 
growing  well.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  Priest 
could  restrain  him,  but  at  last  his  passion,  his  long- 
ing was  amenable  to  reason  and  he  saw  the  futility 
of  such  an  idea,  the  rashness,  the  utter  ruin  it  would 
involve — though  it  was  hard,  terribly  hard  not  to 
see  Josefa. 

As  they  were  now  out  of  sight  in  the  jungle  of 
cane,  Father  Clement  allowed  Dabney  to  alight,  and 
cutting  up  his  cassock,  bandaged  as  best  he  could  the 
wounded  arm. 

"Ma  foi!"  he  laughed,  "it  seems  fate  has  decreed 
that  I  should  be  the  surgeon  of  Monsieur  Daubi- 
gney." And  with  the  loquacity  natural  to  him,  the 
Frenchman  continued: 

"It  was  a  miracle  that  you  escaped,  mon  cher  ami, 
for  the  ball  hit  right  over  your  heart  and  then 
glanced  off.  A  bird  with  a  broken  wing  may  fly 
again,  but  if  the  heart  be  wounded — well,  monsieur, 
he  would  never  sing  again." 


198  The  Grito 

"And  if  he  tried,"  added  Dabney,  "the  sound 
would  have  no  music  in  it." 

"Your  good  angel  saved  you  this  time,"  com- 
mented the  Priest. 

"Yes,"  answered  Dabney  meditatively. 

"Think  over  it,  mon  gargon,  as  a  warning.  The 
good  God  has  been  merciful,  but  He  will  not  always 
chide." 

Then,  after  promising  Dabney  to  deliver  numer- 
ous messages  to  Josefa,  the  Priest  pressed  his  hand, 
bidding  him  take  the  mare  and  make  his  escape. 

"I  am  lucky,"  the  Virginian  said  as  he  mounted, 
"for  I  never  saw  a  finer  piece  of  horseflesh.  I  wonder 
to  whom  she  belongs?" 

"I  wonder,"  aimlessly  repeated  the  Priest;  then 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  bade  him  adieu. 

On  Dabney  rode,  the  horse  carrying  him  swiftly 
across  the  level  loam.  Toward  the  south  the  prairie 
stretched  luxuriant  with  long  grass  and  rank  weeds, 
a  shimmer  of  brownish  green;  westward,  hugging 
the  river  bottom,  was  a  heavy  growth  of  cane — in 
the  distance  majestically  rose  a  timber  island  of 
cypress  and  magnolia,  while  overhead,  like  a  dome 
of  sapphire,  stretched  the  Texan  sky,  as  blue  as 
Italian  scenery,  even  like  unto  Naples  itself. 

Josefa  lived!  Oh,  glorious  thought!  She  had 
escaped  the  fall  of  the  Alamo  like  he  had  been  spared 
from  the  Goliad  massacre.  Was  not  destiny  indis- 
solubly  linking  their  fates  ?  She  lived  and  he  knew 
still  loved  him.  The  tumult  of  a  thousand  water- 
falls beat  in  his  ears.  She  loved  him  with  all  the 
passionate  ardor  of  her  Spanish  soul ;  this  assurance 


A  Disappearance  199 

was  sweeter  than  spikenard,  more  precious  than 
frankincense.  It  put  new  marrow  in  his  bones.  It 
made  him  resolute  to  do  his  best  in  fighting  for  his 
country  because  it  was  her  country ;  to  free  the  land 
from  the  trespassing  of  the  tyrant  so  that  it  would 
be  a  home  tranquil  and  sweet,  for  her  and  for  him. 

A  crushing  weight  of  a  great  grief  was  lifted 
from  the  Priest's  heart  and  a  long  sigh  of  relief 
escaped  him  as  he  saw  Dabney  depart,  and  lifting 
his  eyes  to  heaven  he  uttered  a  prayer  of  thanks- 
giving that  his  friend,  Josefa's  love,  had  been  spared. 
He  wished  that  he  might  hasten  back  to  Seiiora 
Alvarez's  adobe  and  tell  his  godchild  the  joyful 
news — that  Daubigney  had  not  been  slain  by  the 
Comanche,  that  he  had  also  miraculously  escaped 
the  massacre  of  the  morning.  Josefa,  though,  had 
been  very  ill  and  the  Priest  feared  lest  she  be  excited 
beyond  her  strength,  but  he  would  tell  her  part  of 
it,  at  least,  that  Big  Terrapin  had  saved  the  Vir- 
ginian from  the  rattlesnake — that  would  interest 
her,  that  would  hasten  convalescence.  Such  were 
Father  Clement's  thoughts  as  he  emerged  from  the 
canebrake,  but  the  surprises  of  the  day  were  not 
yet  over,  for  he  observed  a  woman  coming  in  his 
direction. 

"Eh,  Nina!"  he  exclaimed  in  greeting,  shaking  his 
head  gloomily,  for  that  she  had  become  a  camp- 
follower  was  evident;  nevertheless,  he  put  the 
question : 

"What  brings  you  to  Goliad  ?" 

The  woman  knew  he  read  her  like  an  open  book. 


200  The  Grito 

"Padre/*  she  said  resentfully,  "I  did  not  seek  you 
for  a  confession  and  neither  do  I  meddle  with  your 
business  by  inquiring  why  you  are  in  Goliad  instead 
of  San  'Tone.  What  I  am  trying  to  find  out  is,  can 
you  tell  me  what  has  become  of  General  Urrea's 
horse?" 

"I  am  neither  a  prophet  nor  the  son  of  a  prophet, 
and  so  I  cannot  tell,"  replied  the  Jesuit. 

His  manner  was  irritating. 

"Well,"  snapped  she,  a  blaze  of  anger  scintillating 
from  her  eyes,  "General  Urrea  is  in  a  perfect  fury, 
for  'twas  the  fleetest  foot  in  the  Mexican  army.  She 
was  named  after  me,  only  he  always  called  her  'Lady 
Nina/  and  he  left  her  tied  by  the  Mission  door." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Priest  reminiscently,  "I  myself 
remember  seeing  a  horse  standing  there." 

"But  she  has  disappeared  and  I  would  like  to 
know  where  she  has  gone." 

"So  would  I,"  heartily  agreed  the  Jesuit  as  he 
passed  on. 

Nina's  mentioning  the  old  Mission  made  the 
Priest  involuntarily  gaze  in  that  direction,  and  he 
noticed  a  red  glow,  such  as  the  sun  never  makes, 
lighting  the  sky.  For  a  moment  he  thought  the 
prairie  was  ablaze,  and  then,  recollecting  the  officer's 
words,  the  Jesuit  knew  it  came  from  the  bonfire  the 
Mexicans  had  made  of  the  massacred.  It  seemed 
as  if  Medusa  were  shaking  her  hair  of  serpents  to 
the  breezes  as  the  flaring  flames,  hissing  like  demons, 
shot  heavenward,  and  then,  as  if  ashamed,  sunk 
quickly  into  seething  vapors  of  black  smoke. 

Looking  at  the  old  Mission  and  the  fire-lit  sky,  the 
Priest  broke  forth:: 


A  Disappearance  201 

"Slain  between  the  temple  and  the  altar  of  free- 
dom, their  blood  will  cry  out  from  the  ground ! 

"Oh,  Palm  Sunday  that  should  witness  such 
butchery!  Oh,  day  of  days  to  be  thus  desecrated! 

"Mexicans,  in  your  ignorance  you  are  burning 
incense  to  the  God  of  Liberty  as  truly  as  the  heathen 
erected  their  altar  to  the  Unknown  God ! 

"Without  the  shedding  of  blood  there  is  no  salva- 
tion ;  Texas  will  be  redeemed ! 

"Men  have  their  Gethsemanes  and  nations  their 
Goliads!" 

Uttering  these  lamentations,  Father  Clement 
wearily  turned,  his  face  to  seek  Josefa.  The  glare 
of  light  was  fading  from  the  sky.  A  tiny  speck  like 
a  gnat  floated  in  the  eternal  blue.  Lower  and  lower 
it  came,  with  wings  outspread;  gracefully  it  soared 
along,  coming  closer  to  earth.  When  clearly  in 
view  and  the  haze  of  distance  had  disappeared,  it 
took  the  horrible  shape  of  a  bird  of  prey,  evidently 
reconnoitering  for  the  flock  of  vultures  that  soon 
gathered  to  pick  the  charred  flesh  from  the  bones  of 
the  Goliad  garrison. 

Senora  Alvarez  was  awaiting  Father  Clement  in 
her  doorway.  The  expression  on  her  face  startled 
him ;  it  told  him  something  had  happened,  something 
that  her  lips  hated  to  speak. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?" 

"Josefa!"  she  gasped,  and  tears  rained  down  her 
cheeks,  "Josefa  was  gone  when  I  came  in  from  the 
plaza!" 

The  Priest  pushed  by  her  and  entered  the  house ; 
the  woman  followed  close  at  his  heels,  weeping 
silently. 


202  The  Grito 

The  girl's  bed  was  empty.  That  she  had  not 
departed  in  delirium  was  evinced  by  the  absence  of 
her  clothes;  they  too  were  gone;  not  a  trace  of  the 
senorita  remained  save  the  tousled  bed. 

A  moan  of  unutterable  anguish  escaped  from 
Father  Clement ;  that  the  senorita  had  been  spirited 
away  by  Ramon  Urrea  was  his  immediate  conclu- 
sion. He  remembered  her  uncle's  avowal  to  marry 
her  to  Castrillo — that  was  the  solution  of  the 
mystery.  In  vain  the  Jesuit  tried  to  find  her.  No 
one  knew,  or  at  least  would  tell,  a  word  about  it.  A 
search  throughout  Goliad  revealed  nothing  save  that 
she  had  as  completely  disappeared  as  if  the  ground 
had  opened  and  swallowed  her  up.  The  Priest 
prayed  and  hoped  that  perhaps  she  had  wandered 
away,  and  yet  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  this  con- 
clusion was  illogical,  invalid.  He  believed  to  a  cer- 
tainty that  she  had  been  abducted,  for  the  words  of 
Urrea  spoken  that  morning  kept  ringing  in  his  ears 
like  the  death-knell  of  all  hope,  "She  shall  yet  marry 
Castrillo !"  A  helpless  fury,  a  rage  settled  upon  the 
Jesuit  as  he  essayed  in  vain  to  find  the  haughty 
Spaniard.  That  was  why  Urrea  had  wished  to  find 
his  horse,  the  fleetest  foot  in  all  Mexico,  the  one 
Daubigney  was  riding,  over  which  the  Priest  had 
laughed  as  a  travesty ;  that  horse  had  been  intended 
to  speed  Josefa  away — Father  Clement  saw  it  now 
in  the  light  of  a  tragedy. 

The  next  morning  he  came  upon  Ramon  Urrea, 
and  it  was  well  for  the  Don's  safety  that  the  old 
Frenchman  did  not  meet  him  alone.  At  first  the 
Spaniard  feigned  great  surprise,  even  blatant  dis- 
tress, that  the  Jesuit's  searching  keenness  was  quick 


A  Disappearance  203 

in  discerning  threadbare ;  then  in  language  loud  and 
interspersed  with  strong  oaths,  he  vowed  he  knew 
naught  of  his  niece's  whereabouts.  The  Priest  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  speaker's  arm,  with  a  touch 
light  though  it  was,  imposed  silence. 

"In  God's  name  tell  me  what  you  have  done  with 
Josefa,  the  child  of  my  bosom  ?  Speak,  I  command 
you,  speak!" 

The  old  man's  voice  was  tremulous  with  emotion, 
his  hair  had  whitened,  his  face  turned  aged  in  the 
night. 

For  a  moment  Ramon  Urrea  looked  at  him,  awed 
by  Father  Clement's  manner,  that  in  times  past  could 
cower  him.  Now  with  the  leer  of  a  drunkard  he 
burst  in  a  loud  laugh,  saying : 

"Birds  leave  the  home  nest  when  they  mate." 

He  winked  significantly,  a  sorry  spectacle,  and 
after  hiccoughing,  mumbled  in  a  maudlin  way : 

"Its — too — long —  a  —  tale  —  to  —  hear  —  now, 
caramba!  I  — will  — tell  — you  —  maybe  —  some — 
other — time."  And  off  he  staggered,  while  the 
Priest,  utterly  powerless,  completely  helpless,  burst 
into  tears,  the  tears  of  a  desolate,  broken-hearted  old 
man. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN   THE   MESHES   OF   THE  SPIDER 

It  is  beyond  the  limited  scope  of  this  story  to  en- 
ter into  the  details  of  Texas'  trouble  with  Mexico, 
for  that  is  the  prerogative  of  history,  not  romance — 
though  romance  is  reality  and  fact  surpasses  fiction. 

Affairs  in  Mexico  were  not  as  tranquil  as  Santa 
Anna  might  have  wished  them.  He  coquetted  with 
the  Church;  he  flattered  the  Army;  he  posed  as  a 
patriot ;  and  yet  peace  had  not  crowned  his  efforts  or 
prosperity  his  plans.  Having  reduced  the  garrison 
of  the  Alamo  and  Goliad  to  ashes,  he  sought  to  ter- 
rorize the  Texans  by  penetrating  the  interior,  leaving 
the  burnt  towns  of  Harrisburg,  Gonzales,  and  San 
Felipe  as  milestones  in  his  march. 

"Gin'ral  Santy  Anny  is  not  th'  fool  Oi'm  thinkin' 
f 'r  meself,  though  he  is  a  mur'dhrin'  villyun,  a  divvil 
sure,  none  greater  in  th'  whole  wurruld,"  spoke  up 
Patrick  Jack ;  "yit,  says  Oi,  he  himsilf  knows  that  th' 
Texan  pathrites  are  not  be-at  dacent.  Th'  Spanyard 
scoundrel  raymimbers  th'  Alamo ;  an'  he  don't  fe-al 
aisy  or  whoi  should  he  kape  pesterin'  us  loike  a  green 
floi  buzzin'  r-round  ye'er  nose  on  a  hot  day,  Oi'm  a 
astin'?" 

"It  is  plain  enough  what  he's  doing  it  for,"  an- 
swered a  Texan  named  Tom  Green."  It  is  to  pre- 


In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  205 

vent  the  United  States  from  allowing  us  to  enter  the 
Union,  for  of  course  as  long  as  we  are  at  war  the 
States  as  a  power  are  not  going  to  side  with  either 
party,  though  all  their  sympathies  are  with  us." 

"Begorrah !  Oi  will  nivir  f  rgit  th'  Texans  winnin' 
me  gr-ratitude  by  gittin'  me  an*  poor  Bill  Travis  out 
o'  pr-rison  where  th'  Mexicans  had  shut  us  up  f  r  no 
%r-reason  at  awll,  at  awll,  unless  it  be  th'  foolish  wan 
of  our  bein'  colonists,  jist  dacent  white  people.  But 
a  ma-an  niver  knows  what  he's  bor-rn  f  r.  It's  mebbe 
to  be  a  gin'ral,  a  pr-resident,  or  jist  a  plain  cor-rpse 
widout  evin  a  toom'stun  ter  tell  he  was  gr-reat, 
much  less  a  wake  to  give  pleasure  to  his  fr-riend's  f 'r 
sorrowin'  over  him.  Now  Oi  seem  ter  be  cut  out  fr 
a  her-ro  all  roight,  an'  Oi'm  willin'  to  die  loike  a 
fightin'-cock,  but  Oi  don't  pr-ray  to  be  kilt ;  howiver, 
who  wud  have  b'laved,  fr  niver  did  Oi  dr-ream  it 
whin  Oi  left  owld  Oireland,  that  Patr-rick  Jack 
wud  be  the  innicent  cause  o'  a  moighty  war ;  that  th' 
Texans  wud  get  riled  an'  consader  it  insolince  av  th' 
Mexican  governmint  ter  put  me  in  pr-rison  when 
fr  toime  immemoryal  some  av  me  mither's  people, 
th'  McKeevies,  have  thought  it  nawthin'  to  go  to  jail. 
But  Americky  is  different  f  r  Kildare  an'  Oi'm  no 
longer  a  peasant,  but  a  thrue  sojer,  a  pathrite !" 

"Well,"  remarked  Charles  Dabney,  "it's  no  use 
our  letting  the  Mexicans  use  Texas  as  their  parade- 
ground.  What  we  have  got  to  do  is  to  carry  the  war 
into  Santa  Anna's  own  country,  then  he  will  let  us 
alone." 

"Roight  ye  ar-re !"  spoke  up  Jack.  "Let  us  carry 
this  wur-ruk  av  war  in  th'  hear-rt  av  th'  inimy's 
counthry,  an'  give  'em  a  treminjous  wallop,  an'  win  a 


206  The  Grito 

gloryous  victhry  over  th'  pizenous  reptiles,  fr  there 
ain't  no  surer  cur-re  than  foightin'  th'  Divvil  with 
fire;  it's  his  desthruction  annyhow." 

"You  bet!  we'll  give  Santy  Anny  a  taste  of  his 
own  medicine  and  see  how  he  relishes  it."  The  last 
speaker  was  the  youngest  man  in  camp,  though 
in  stature,  a  perfect  Hercules,  and  on  account  of  the 
size  of  his  feet  his  comrades  seldom  called  him  by 

any  other  name  than  Big  Foot  Wallace. 

#***#*. 

Thus  it  happened  Texas  troops  collected  near  the 
frontier,  eager  to  be  led  into  Mexico,  to  cross  the  Rio 
Bravo  del  Norte,  and  carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
land. 

This  was  opposed  by  those  in  command. 

The  men,  however,  who  were  itching  to  fight,  to 
avenge  Santa  Anna's  atrocities,  were  not  volunteers 
from  other  States,  but  the  product  of  the  time,  the 
Texas  Rangers,  men  whose  strong,  determined  spirit 
finally  wrested  order  out  of  chaos. 

The  Ranger  was  a  new  figure  in  history,  modelled 
on  the  guerrilla  type.  His  dress  was  plain.  A  slouch 
hat  shielded  usually  bluish-gray  eyes.  On  the  high 
pommel  of  his  saddle  coiled  a  lasso.  He  was  as  much 
at  home  on  the  prairie  and  as  independent  of  the 
world  as  a  battleship  in  mid-sea,  for  on  his  arm  rested 
a  long  rifle,  while  the  herds  on  the  plain  constituted 
the  sole  commissary  to  which  he  applied.  Nearly 
three  hundred  men  of  this  stamp  and  mind  had 
gathered  on  the  border  and  were  not  easily  to  be 
dissuaded  from  their  purpose  of  invading  Mexico. 
Resolute,  steadfast,  willing  to  bear  the  responsibility, 
willing  to  run  the  risk,  their  resolve  was  firm.  If 


In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  207 

Texas  did  not  sanction  their  course,  they  would  go  as 
individuals,  banded  together  under  the  command  of 
those  of  their  own  number,  who  were  fully  compe- 
tent to  lead  this  expedition — men  such  as  the  gallant 
Green,  and  Cameron,  a  brave  and  brawny  Scot. 

So  one  night,  when  darkness  veiled  their  move- 
ments, they  cast  the  die  and  crossed  the  Rio  Grande 
at  the  Mexican  town  of  Mier.  With  a  dash  the  Ran- 
gers surprised  the  pickets  and  slipped  into  Mier, 
fighting  their  way  as  they  went,  until,  nearing  the 
plaza,  a  terrific  discharge  of  shrapnel  swept  the 
street,  causing  the  Texans  to  take  shelter  behind  the 
protecting  walls  of  adjacent  adobes.  There  enscon- 
ced as  if  in  a  fort,  their  situation  was  an  advantage- 
ous one.  It  commanded  the  plaza  where  were  posi- 
tioned the  town's  guns.  When  daylight  came  the 
Mexicans  attempted  to  turn  their  ordnance  on  the 
enemy,  but  to  no  purpose,  for  the  Rangers  opened 
fire  upon  them  with  their  deadly  marksmanship.  As 
soon  as  the  smoke  cleared  away  the  Texans  were 
ready  again.  A  dozen  cannoneers  fell  with  linstock 
in  hand.  Desperate,  the  Mexicans  sent  their  brav- 
est men,  the  Presidio  ales,  the  town  guards,  to  try  to 
do  the  work. 

"Fire  for  your  life,  boys !"  yelled  Green. 

A  prompt  discharge  followed,  so  that  not  a  Mexi- 
can lived  to  reach  the  cannon,  while  a  cheer  went  up 
from  the  Americanos. 

The  Mexicans  then,  crawling  along  on  their  flat 
roofs,  sought  to  lasso  their  artillery  and  drag  it  from 
the  field ;  but  it  was  difficult  work  with  the  Texans' 
bullets  raining  upon  them  like  hail.  The  sun,  an  all- 
seeing  eye,  looked  down  on  the  streets  of  Mier  run- 


208  The  Grito 

ning  with  blood,  for  the  Mexicans,  with  their  inac- 
curate escoepta  shooting,  were  but  as  targets  for  the 
practiced  Rangers.  As  their  soldiery  could  accom- 
plish naught,  Mexican  subtlety  went  to  work.  On 
the  air  sounded  a  great  blowing  of  trumpets,  as  if 
legions  of  cavalry  were  arriving,  and  a  white  flag 
was  seen  approaching  the  Texan  stronghold.  The 
courier  who  bore  it  brought  a  message  to  the  effect 
that  the  Mexicans  so  admired  the  valor  of  the  Rang- 
ers that  they  did  not  wish  them  to  meet  with  the 
fate  of  the  Alamo,  and  offered  them  surrender,  as  re- 
inforcements seventeen  hundred  strong  had  already 
arrived  and  three  hundred  more  were  momentarily 
due  from  Monterey,  hence  if  they  continued  to  fight, 
no  quarter  need  be  expected. 

The  Texans  believed  and  were  duped. 

It  was  all  a  hoax — a  bluff  game ;  a  few  more  min- 
utes' fighting  would  have  meant  a  victory  for  the 
Rangers,  for  the  Mexicans  had  received  no  succor. 

"Let  us  die  like  soldiers/'  said  Dabney,  "or  we 
may  die  like  dogs!"  but  his  words  availed  not,  for 
the  message  received  would  have  had  its  effect  on  the 
morale  of  more  disciplined  soldiers  than  those  Texan 
Rangers,  the  majority  of  whom  favored  surrender. 
Their  leaders,  though,  bitterly  opposed  so  doing, 
yet  they  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  sacrificing 
their  men's  lives  in  a  forlorn  cause. 

The  battle  had  been  fought  with  great  obstinacy 
on  both  sides.  The  Texans  were,  as  they  supposed, 
now  at  great  hazard.  Green  called  for  a  hundred 
volunteers  to  go  with  him  and  cut  their  way  through 
the  enemy's  lines;  but  Charles  Dabney,  Big  Foot 


In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  209 

Wallace,  Patrick  Jack,  and  a  handful  of  others  were 
all  that  rallied  to  his  summons. 

The  interpreter  reading  the  terms  of  surrender 
took  pains  to  change  the  phrase,  "All  who  give  up 
their  arms  will  be  treated  with  the  consideration 
which  is  in  accord  with  the  magnanimous  Mexican 
nation,"  to,  "With  all  the  honors  and  consideration 
of  prisoners-of-war." 

"Men,"  cautioned  Dabney,  "it's  not  worth  the 
paper  it's  written  on — it  is  another  of  their  lies — 
remember  Goliad!"  But  despite  his  warning,  soon 
all  the  Texans  marched  out  to  the  plaza  and  began 
stacking  arms.  Green,  Dabney,  Jack,  and  Wallace, 
though,  never  budged.  Turning  to  them,  Captain 
Cameron  said : 

"Boys,  it's  no  use  our  holding  out  longer ;  they  are 
all  gone  but  us,  and  we'll  have  to  knock  under." 

Silently  they  huddled  near  Cameron,  glaring  like 
tigers  upon  the  enemy  swarming  around  them. 

"I  shall  never  surrender  to  a  Mexican,"  said  Dab- 
ney, and  he  gave  his  rifle  a  blow  that  shattered  it; 
just  as  the  gallant  Green,  following  his  sentiments, 
snapped  his  sword  across  his  knee. 

"For  God's  sake,  Big  Foot,  give  them  yours!" 
urged  Cameron. 

"I  obey  my  commanding  officer,"  the  young  man 
answered,  as  he  handed  up  the  gun  that  had  done 
such  good  service  all  day."  While  Patrick  Jack,  fol- 
lowing suit,  said : 

"Shure,  faith,  an'  it  is  not  a  cow'rdliest  surrender 
on  yer  part  or  mine ;  f 'r  to  obey  ordhers  is  the  jooty 
av  ivry  thrue  sojer,  so  Oi  have  always  heerd  anny- 
how — an'  may  Gawd  in  hivin  presarve  us  awll." 


210  The  Grito 

The  town  of  Mier  was  jubilant  over  the  victory. 
The  dead  Texans  were  stripped  of  their  clothing  and 
dragged  through  the  street  by  the  Mexican  cavalry, 
amidst  the  cheers  of  the  populace. 

"Just  look!"  exclaimed  Wallace  to  Dabney,"  and 
see  what  we've  got  to  expect.  If  the  same  ain't  in 
store  for  us,  my  name  ain't  Big  Foot !" 

Charles  Dabney,  though,  did  not  look.  He  had 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  was  think- 
ing of  Josefa.  Would  he  ever  see  her  again, 
now  that  he  was  in  the  enemy's  land  as  well  as  in 
their  power.  He  longed  to  write  her  a  letter,  to  tell 
her  why  he  came  to  Mier;  to  assure  her  he  had  fol- 
lowed his  conscience ;  that  he  had  done  it  believing  it 
was  for  the  best,  for  her,  for  Texas,  and  for  himself. 
But  he  had  no  time  to  do  so,  for  despite  the  Mexi- 
cans' promise  to  keep  the  prisoners  near  the  border, 
convenient  for  exchanging  them,  the  Rangers  were 
put  in  irons  and  started  on  the  long  march  for  the 
City  of  Mexico,  being  treated  with  great  cruelty  by 
their  captors.  In  all  the  towns  through  which  they 
passed  they  were  paraded  for  the  amusement  of  jeer- 
ing mobs.  Their  march  led  them  through  Monterey, 
beautiful  Monterey,  with  its  old  cathedral  and  mar- 
ket-place, its  adobes  of  quaint  Moorish  pattern  and 
mean  jacales  of  reeds — all  shimmering  white  alike  in 
the  glorious  sunshine.  The  natives  pelted  the  Amer- 
icanos with  stones,  clods  and  eggs,  hooting : 

"Muere  los  gringos!"  "Down  with  the  heretics !" 
"Death  to  the  ladrones!" 


In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  211 

The  condition  of  the  prisoners  was  most  wretch- 
ed. Footsore  and  weary,  they  trudged  over  the 
steep,  rough  road.  Rains,  cold  winds  from  the 
mountains,  the  Sierra  Madre;  miserable  camp-fires 
and  the  poorest  food,  all  conspired  to  make  their 
misery  complete.  The  scene  was  a  diversity  of 
cacti,  Spanish  daggers,  prickly-pear,  mesquite  and 
chaparral;  with  higher  up  the  silver  sheen  of  pine 
and  cypress  and  the  deep  green  of  spruce  and  fir; 
then  precipitous  gorges,  long  defiles,  wide  plateaux 
and  the  mountains,  wild,  weird,  rock-ribbed  and  som- 
bre, their  craggy  ledges  fit  only  for  the  eagle's  aerie. 

Each  day's  march  brought  the  Rangers  farther 
into  the  meshes  of  the  spider.  They  longed  to  es- 
cape, their  talk  ran  on  nothing  else ;  but  it  was  easier 
to  plan  than  to  perfect.  Escape  seemed  a  fanciful, 
an  impossible,  yea  a  mad  idea ;  for  the  Texans,  with 
hands  tied  behind  them  with  raw-hide  thongs,  were 
well  guarded  by  Mexicans  armed  with  bayonets  and 
escoeptas,  short  bull-dog  muskets.  In  the  distance 
now  loomed  a  white  quadrangular  building,  that 
looked  like  a  fort  or  a  calaboza,  a  prison.  It  was 
the  Hacienda  of  Salado.  Here  the  Rangers  were 
marched  into  confinement. 

"It's  a  divvil  of  a  place !"  was  Patrick  Jack's  com- 
ment as  he  looked  around  him.  The  deep-set  win- 
dows, high  from  the  floor,  emphasized  the  thickness 
of  the  walls.  Through  these  small  openings  the  sun 
at  its  zenith  could  only  send  feeble  glinting  rays  of 
light,  weird  as  a  corpse  candle.  That  some  awful 
fate  awaited  them  the  Texans  felt  certain — but  in 
their  extremity,  their  desperation,  a  flicker  of  hope 
came  into  their  breasts  when  the  Mexicans  untied 


212  The  Grito 

their  hands.  Small  as  this  liberty  was,  the  freedom 
of  one's  hands  whispers  a  possibility — and  new  zeal, 
new  courage  buoyed  them  up.  Soon  a  plan  for  es- 
cape was  hatched. 

It  was  agreed  that  in  the  morning,  when  many 
of  the  guard  stacked  guns  to  cook  breakfast,  Cam- 
eron was  to  give  the  signal  by  throwing  up  his  hat. 
No  sooner  was  this  done  than  the  Rangers  fell  upon 
the  Mexicans  to  overpower  them.  Green,  Dabney, 
Wallace  and  Jack  were  the  leaders.  Each  had  in  his 
fist  the  strength  of  a  giant,  and  in  the  first  rush  the 
Americanos,  filled  with  lust  of  hate,  soon  sprawled 
the  guard  on  the  floor.  They  went  down  like  an 
ox  before  a  butcher.  With  a  quick  leap  over  the 
bodies  of  the  stunned,  Dabney  reached  the  inner 
court,  the  plaza  de  armis,  where  the  arms  and  am- 
munition were  kept.  Like  a  pack  of  wolves  the 
Rangers  followed,  trampling  the  sentinels  under 
foot,  for  the  Americanos  had  the  advantage  in  size 
and  strength  when  it  came  to  a  fist-fight. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning;  the  Mexican  officers 
were  caught  napping. 

Seizing  a  gun  with  a  bayonet  on  it,  Charles  Dab- 
ney kept  off  his  assailants  until  the  Texans  could 
secure  muskets.  Reckless  of  consequence  he  stood 
his  ground,  implacable,  ferocious,  panting.  The 
Mexicans  cried  to  one  another  to  brain  him,  and  in 
their  rage  they  made  at  him  with  their  swords,  but 
his  strength  seemed  superhuman,  his  activity  and 
courage  marvelous,  his  dare-devil  bravery  awe- 
some. 

Soon  the  Rangers  were  in  the  open  courtyard. 
There  the  cavalry  guarding  the  gate  were  also  sur- 


In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  213 

prised.  Before  they  had  time  to  leap  in  their  sad- 
dles, the  Texans  were  seizing  their  horses.  Hoarse 
shouts  of  rage,  oaths  English  and  Mexican  filled 
the  air.  The  place  was  a  bedlam;  a  mass  of  men 
fighting  like  bulldogs  clench,  with  tooth  and  nail. 

It  was  glorious  to  behold  the  valor  of  the  Rang- 
ers ;  nothing  could  withstand  their  fury.  The  Mexi- 
cans were  as  thistle-down  before  the  wind — the  Mier 
prisoners  had  effected  their  escape  and  were  on  the 
road  to  the  Rio  Grande,  to  Texas  and  to  freedom. 

"Yer  naden't  be  followin*  us!"  shouted  Patrick 
Jack,  shaking  his  fist  in  defiant  farewell ;  "  'cause 
nawthin'  but  th'  Banshee  on  a  pale  horse  can  catch 
us — Erin  go  bragh !"  and  off  the  Irishman  galloped 
on  an  old  dun  mule. 

Then  the  noise  and  the  curses  died  away,  and  the 
only  sound  was  the  tattoo  of  hurrying  hoofs.  Hard 
riding  brought  Saltillo  in  sight  next  morning. 

The  Rangers  unwisely  deciding  it  was  best  to 
avoid  the  town,  took  to  the  mountains.  The  region 
was  rough,  arid,  dreary,  desolate,  and  the  men  felt 
terribly  few  in  that  wilderness  of  space.  Ere  long 
they  found  themselves  lost. 

The  sun  shone  with  lights  that  would  have  de- 
lighted a  painter,  but  to  the  eyes  of  the  pilgrims, 
blurred  by  heat  and  aching  for  the  sight  of  water,  it 
threw  a  cruel,  pitiless  glamour  over  the  charm  of 
landscape — the  sublimity  of  Nature,  for  nowhere  is 
scenery  more  majestic  than  in  Mexico.  The  ele- 
mental grandeur  of  mountains  with  ragged  outline, 
sterile  of  aspect,  rose  like  battlements  impregnable, 
while  feudally  mote-like,  gray  canons  challenged 
access,  and  dotting  the  alkali,  clay  table-land,  the 


214  The  Grito 

plateau,  were  great  patches  of  disintegrated  lava, 
like  missiles  hurled  by  a  giant  in  volcanic  wrath. 
Below  stretched  parched  valleys,  with  only  here  and 
there  dull-colored  cacti,  thorny  sentinels  of  ster- 
ility— and  yet  seen  through  the  elusive  effects  of 
atmosphere,  sky,  mountain,  and  desert  blend  into 
a  perfect  picture,  a  glorious  panorama,  fresh  from 
the  brush  of  the  Master  Artist.  It  was  a  mirage 
though,  intended  only  for  man's  admiration,  not  for 
his  sustenance. 

The  days  that  followed  brought  the  horrors  of 
starvation.  Without  food  or  water  the  condition 
of  the  Texans  became  desperate.  Killing  their 
horses  and  mules,  the  men  not  only  greedily  de- 
voured the  flesh,  but  drank  the  animals'  hot  blood, 
as  if  it  had  been  water  from  a  bubbling  spring. 

Their  tongues  became  parched  and  began  to  swell, 
and  some  of  the  Rangers,  unable  to  go  farther,  fell 
dead  in  their  tracks.  A  few  sought  to  allay  their 
agony  by  chewing  prickly  pear  leaves,  but  this 
only  added  to  their  misery.  Others  scratched  in  the 
ground  for  cool  earth  to  apply  to  their  aching 
throats,  before  falling  delirious  to  die,  their  bodies 
to  furnish  food  for  coyotes.  Sometimes  standing 
straight  and  sometimes  crawling  on  all  fours,  still 
others  crept  far  up  into  the  canons,  where  the  sky 
seemed  like  a  ribbon  of  blue,  and  the  pitiless  vault 
of  rock  shut  them  in  forever.  Several  became  in- 
sane, and  stealing  away  took  to  the  mountains,  and 
only  the  vultures  ever  knew  their  fate.  But  most 
of  the  Rangers  tried  to  stay  together,  pushing 
madly,  blindly  forward.  Neither  high  walls  nor 
yawning  abyss  stopped  them.  Like  mountain-goats 


In  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  215 

they  leaped  across  chasms — running,  stumbling, 
falling,  dying;  their  one  idea  was  water,  water — 
WATER !  Liberty  was  forgotten,  everything  was 
forgotten  save  the  thirst  unquenchable  and  all-con- 
suming. Toward  evening  the  heavens  would  be- 
come opalescent  chalcedony,  then  from  jasper-red 
to  shaded-carnelian ;  and  the  hope  born  of  the  morn- 
ing died  with  the  night. 

The  Mexican  cavalry,  meanwhile,  with  pack- 
mules  and  food,  were  scouring  the  country  in  pur- 
suit of  the  fugitives.  Searching  parties  continued 
to  bring  in  stragglers  until  the  recaptured  numbered 
a  hundred  and  seventy  odd.  They  were  tied  to- 
gether with  ropes  and  taken  back  to  Salado. 

Dabney  and  Big  Foot  Wallace  walked  side  by 
side.  Capable  of  great  hardship,  their  powerful 
physiques  had  not  succumbed  to  the  sufferings  en- 
dured, though  their  faces  looked  pinched  and  hag- 
gard. Yet  Dabney's  countenance  was  calm,  his  head 
unbent.  His  step  might  be  compared  to  that  of  one 
treading  the  way  to  Calvary.  The  Virginian  be- 
lieved that  his  end  was  near;  he  felt  that  soon  his 
restless  soul  would  cease  its  striving.  Memory, 
like  a  two-edged  sword,  brought  him  happiness  and 
anguish.  He  rejoiced  that  he  had  given  his  life 
in  a  noble  cause,  that  he  had  fought  for  Texas, 
Josefa's  country,  and  yet  it  was  hard  to  resign  love 
with  all  its  hopes  and  promises  and  golden  dreams. 
But  there  was  his  old  sorrow,  his  secret,  the  anguish 
that  gnawed  at  his  heart  with  the  keen,  sharp  tooth 
of  remorse,  never  to  be  blunted  by  time.  Fate  was 
punishing  him  now  for  the  rashness  of  youth — 
stern  Fate  that  was  inexorable,  imperious,  pitiless. 


216  The  Grito 

So  deep  was  Dabney  in  meditation  that  he  did  not 
notice  some  Mexicans  digging  a  ditch  close  by  the 
Hacienda.  Neither  did  he  hear  Big  Foot  Wallace's 
remark : 

"I  guess  Santa  Anna  means  that  for  our  graves." 

"Weel,"  said  Cameron,  dropping  as  he  sometimes 
did  into  broad  Scotch,  "I  would  nae  wonder,  the 
scoon'rel."  Then  turning  to  Dabney,  "How  think 
ye?"  And  receiving  no  reply,  queried,  "What  ails 
ye,  mon,  are  ye  daft?" 

But  the  question  did  not  break  the  spell  of  the 
Virginian's  mood,  and  as  he  was  again  marched 
into  confinement,  the  prison  atmosphere  increased 
his  melancholy  and  extinguished  hope.  Fatalist 
that  he  was,  he  brooded  over  never  seeing  Josefa 
again,  never  kissing  her  lips  that  were  ruby-red, 
never  feeling  her  warm  arms  about  his  neck,  never 
holding  her  little  brown  hands  in  his.  And  with  the 
thought  of  her  came  the  memory  of  another,  a  face 
of  English  type,  of  girlish  beauty,  one  who  had 
loved  him  dearly.  Memory  suggested  that  he  also 
owed  her  a  farewell,  an  explanation. 

Turning  to  a  Mexican,  the  Virginian  begged  to 
have  his  chains  removed  and  to  be  allowed  to  write  a 
letter.  Something  in  the  prisoner's  appeal  seemed 
to  touch  the  soldier,  who  acceded  by  unfastening 
the  handcuffs  and  supplying  paper  and  pen;  then, 
with  Mexican  consistency,  or  perhaps  repenting  the 
indulgence,  he  refused  to  give  him  ink;  so  that  the 
soldiers,  looking  on,  laughed  derisively  as  if  the 
entire  proceeding  had  been  meant  for  a  jest.  But 
Dabney  murmured  not.  With  his  teeth  he  succeeded 


in  the  Meshes  of  the  Spider  217 

in  opening  a  vein  in  his  left  arm,  so  that  the  blood 
trickled  out ;  then  he  turned  to  Wallace,  saying : 

"Big-Foot,  if  you  live  and  I  don't,  to  ever  get  back 
to  our  old  home, — I  mean  Virginia  not  Texas, — will 
you  do  me  a  favor  ? — will  you  deliver  a  letter  ?" 

"I  will,  God  helping  me,"  replied  the  Ranger  sadly. 

Dabney  then  spreading  the  paper  on  his  knee,  rap- 
idly wrote : — 

"My  DEAR  ANGELICA  : 

"If  this  letter  ever  reaches  you,  you  will  see  it  is 
not  penned  with  ink,  but  written  with  my  life's 
blood,  flowing  from  a  heart  that  through  all  these 
years  has  never  forgotten  you.  Strange  that  may 
sound,  considering  my  silence,  nevertheless  it  is  true, 
for  I  am  soon  to  appear  before  Eternal  Justice, 
where  I  would  not  go  with  a  lie  on  my  lips. 

"I  am  writing  to  tell  you,  Angelica,  that  I  have 
given  my  life  in  the  cause  of  liberty — I  have  proven 
that  I  am  not  a  coward.  I  have  tried  after  all  to 
be  worthy  of  the  lineage  from  whence  I  sprung  and 
to  make  the  D'Aubigney  motto,  'Vincit,  qui  se  vincit,' 
in  verity  my  own. 

"Even  now  I  feel  your  spirit  hovering  near  me, 
unworthy  though  I  be — for  you  have  ever  been  my 
guardian  angel.  It  was  your  daguerreotype,  dear, 
that  turned  the  enemy's  ball  at  Goliad — go  to  his- 
tory for  the  details  of  that  massacre,  for  my  time  is 
too—" 

As  Dabney  wet  his  pen  to  .continue  his  sentence, 
a  Mexican  leaned  over,  snatched  the  letter  and  tore 
it  into  shreds.  The  Virginian  bit  his  lip  and  lifted 
his  arm  with  a  meaning  gesture.  His  fist  came 


218  The  Grito 

down  like  a  piston  as  he  flung  the  Greaser  from 
him,  reeling  and  bruised.  A  musket  was  immedi- 
ately cocked  in  his  face  while  his  guard  reshackled 
his  hands.  But  Carlos  Daubigney's  thoughts,  un- 
trammeled,  framed  another  missive  on  the  tablets 
of  his  mind,  and  prayer  took  it  to  the  ear  of  Him 
Who  is  Love.  It  was  the  wish,  the  hope,  that  in 
that  realm  where  all  is  peace  and  the  heart's  desire 
is  forever  satisfied,  he  might  meet  Josefa  again. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   PROMISE  IS  DEMANDED. 

In  one  of  the  small  cells  of  the  convent  of  the 
Capuchinas  in  Monterey,  close  by  the  Bishop's  Pal- 
ace, a  young  girl  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down, 
ever  and  anon  casting  anxious  glances  into  the 
street.  How  she  came  to  be  there  was  more  than 
she  could  clearly  arrange  in  her  own  mind,  for 
naught  did  she  remember  of  having  taken  a  jour- 
ney ;  and  yet  her  surroundings  were  convincing  that 
she  was  in  a  city  far  from  home,  far  from  San 
Antonio  de  Bexar,  far  from  Texas — for  she  was 
none  other  than  Jose  fa  Urrea.  The  delicately  chisel- 
ed face,  pale  from  recent  illness,  appeared  white  as 
marble  neath  the  mass  of  ringlets  that  shone  with  a 
blue  gloss,  like  the  glint  of  a  crow's  breast  in  the  sun. 
The  big  black  eyes  that  used  to  twinkle  with  fun  as 
she  sang  to  her  guitar,  wore  in  them  now  a  look  of 
grief,  giving  to  her  expression  that  touch  of  spiritual- 
ity, such  as  is  associated  with  the  pictures  of  the  Ma- 
donna. 

A  faint  puff  of  breeze  came  up  from  the  South; 
the  vast  calm,  the  quiet,  the  repose  of  the  convent's 
atmosphere  was  broken  only  by  the  soft,  plaintive 
carol  of  a  little  brown  bird  that  had  flown  to  the 
window,  there  perched  itself  and  begun  to  twitter 


220  The  Grito 

in  that  slow  minor  key  harmonious  with  the  seiior- 
ita's  feelings.  Resting  her  arm  on  the  embrasure, 
she  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hand  and  gazed  sadly, 
blankly  in  the  distance. 

Stretching  majestically  southward  loomed  the 
ragged,  sombre  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  a  bul- 
wark impregnable.  Toward  these  mountains,  like 
a  twisted  string,  meandered  a  hazy  trail,  the  old 
Saltillo  road,  along  which  Carlos  Daubigney  and 
the  Texan  captives  had  been  marched  a  short  while 
before. 

The  dizzy  slopes  of  another  ridge,  the  Silla,  lay 
to  the  east,  its  dangerous  ledges  mellowed  by  tender 
green;  while  westward  the  horizon  was  broken  by 
the  Mitras,  behind  the  lofty  crest  of  which  the  sun 
nightly  lost  itself  in  a  maze  of  gorgeous  color,  like 
the  tints  of  tulips,  red  and  gold.  And  in  the  bosom 
of  the  valley,  close  to  the  ojo  de  agua,  the  great 
spring,  with  its  perennial  gushing  waters,  nestled 
the  city  of  Monterey,  beautiful  at  all  times  but  sub- 
lime in  the  evening.  Around  the  city,  like  a  horse- 
shoe, wound  the  San  Juan  River,  through  a  valley  of 
rippling  barley  fields,  of  blossoming  maguey,  with 
here  and  there  groves  of  lemon,  fig,  and  orange — a 
landscape  of  the  tropics.  It  was  little  wonder  that 
this  spot,  three  hundred  years  before,  had  so  im- 
pressed the  Viceroy  of  old  Spain  that  he  selected  it 
as  a  site  worthy  of  the  seat  of  government  for  this 
the  province  of  Nuevo  Leon,  the  richest  in  luxuri- 
ance of  all  the  provinces  in  the  realm  of  Mexico. 
And  it  was  less  wonder  still,  considering  the  vanity 
and  weakness  of  human  nature,  that  he  named  it  for 
himself,  this  Conde  de  Monterey,  for  a  proud  Castil- 


A  Promise  is  Demanded  221 

lian  was  he;  and  he  rode  into  the  valley  of  the  San 
Juan  escorted  by  cavaliers  and  soldiers  with  arque- 
buses and  lances ;  their  banners  of  white,  rich  in  ar- 
morial bearings,  floating  to  the  gentle  breezes.  And 
here  the  Spaniards  had  taken  possession  and  planted 
the  cross  on  the  very  spot  where  now  rose  the  Church 
of  St.  Francis,  the  good  saint  who  had  guided  the 
expedition  so  successfully.  The  old  church,  the 
Bishop's  Palace,  the  citadel  and  the  Convent  of  the 
Capuchinas  all  bespoke  the  antiquity  of  the  place,  the 
age  of  Monterey. 

But  Josefa's  gaze  saw  neither  beauty  of  landscape 
nor  the  quaint  Moorish  pattern  of  the  city,  for  the 
tears  that  dimmed  her  vision  reflected  only  the 
images  in  her  heart — the  idols  of  her  soul,  Carlos 
Daubigney  and  Father  Clement.  And  so  she  did  not 
hear  the  door  pushed  softly  ajar  or  see  the  sweet- 
faced  nun  who  quietly  set  down  a  tray  of  tempting 
fruits,  a  little  goblet  of  white  wine;  then  lighted  a 
candle  in  a  sconce  above  which  hung  a  crucifix,  and 
having  knelt,  crossed  herself,  and  whispered  an  avet 
hastened  away.  Passing  down  the  hall  the  nun  was 
stopped  by  the  Superieur,  an  elderly  woman  with  the 
face  of  a  saint. 

"How  is  the  little  blossom,  the  poor  little  lamb  ?" 
asked  she  in  a  voice  of  cultured  Spanish,  vibrant 
with  sympathy. 

"Madre"  answered  the  nun,  "she  mends  slowly, 
that  is,  if  she  mends  at  all.  She  seems  heart-broken, 
like  a  dove  that  has  lost  its  mate.  One  may  put  it  in 
a  cage,  feed  it,  tender  it ;  but  it  does  not  coo,  it  does 
not  preen  its  feathers.  It  will  either  beat  its  poor 


222  The  Grito 

wings  out  against  the  bars  or  die  slowly  like  a  flower 
that  fades — but  it  will  surely  die  in  the  end/' 

The  Superieur  sighed,  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  indi- 
cate that  she  appreciated  something  of  the  sentiment 
the  little  nun  was  trying  to  explain;  and  then  she 
opened  the  door  and  entered  Josefa's  room. 

The  girl  still  stood  by  the  window,  only  her  head 
had  sunk  on  her  arm,  and  the  long  black  ringlets 
dropped  in  a  mass  about  her  shoulders.  It  was  an 
attitude  of  deep  dejection,  of  utter  woe.  The  Supe- 
rieur bent  over  and  kissed  her  gently  on  the  fore- 
head; then  seating  herself,  she  gathered  Josefa  in 
her  arms  like  a  mother  might  a  babe. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "words  fail  me  to  comfort 
you ;  but  whisper  your  sorrow  into  the  heart  of  the 
Blessed  Mother,  the  Most  Holy  Virgin,  and  peace 
will  come  into  your  heart,  the  peace  'that  passeth  all 
understanding/  '  Josefa  weeping,  she  continued : 

"Try  to  be  brave,  my  little  one,  my  chiquita,  try  to 
take  courage.  The  troubles  of  this  life  are  short- 
lived compared  with  the  happiness  that  is  beyond, 
that  is  eternal." 

The  Superieur  paused,  heaved  a  deep,  long  sigh 
and  then  added : 

"I  hate  to  disturb  you,  but  the  vicar  has  come  and 
brought  with  him  a  gentleman  who  wishes  to  see 
you.  He  awaits  us  in  the  parlor." 

"Who  is  he  ?"  asked  Josefa,  springing  up  likfe  one 
electrified. 

"Come,  my  dear,  and  see." 

The  woman  drew  the  girl's  arm  through  hers  and 
lead  her  down  the  corridor.  The  vesper  bells  were 
ringing  and  the  nuns  of  the  convent,  in  their  dark 


A  Promise  is  Demanded  223 

dresses,  were  passing  in  long  and  solemn  order  along 
the  cloister,  on  their  way  to  the  chapel.  When  the 
Superieur  reached  the  refectory  she  turned  toward 
the  left,  and  pushing  open  a  huge  door  of  carved 
mahogany,  bade  Josefa  enter.  The  room,  a  rectangle, 
was  large,  sparsely  furnished  almost  to  bareness, 
and  dimly  lighted,  save  for  a  huge  chandelier  that 
hung  near  the  wall  opposite  the  door.  The  reason 
for  its  position  was  obvious,  as  it  threw  into  bold  re- 
lief a  picture  that  was  the  sole  ornament  of  the  room. 
It  was  Titian's  Entombment  of  The  Saviour,  a  gift 
from  Charles  the  Fifth  of  Spain  to  his  domain  of 
Mexico.  Many  tourists  view  it  today  in  the  Guada- 
lupe  Cathedral,  whence  it  was  afterwards  taken  to 
preserve  it  from  the  vandalism  of  war  at  the  siege 
of  Monterey. 

Josefa  had  never  before  seen  a  painting  from  the 
brush  of  one  of  the  world's  masters,  and  it  held  her 
spellbound.  The  lights,  the  shadows,  the  Christ 
face,  the  faces  of  his  followers,  loving  yet  mystified, 
gentle  and  reverent.  The  great  hope  of  a  temporal 
deliverance,  of  a  Messiah,  crushed  in  their  hearts; 
their  countenances  mirroring  disappointment,  de- 
feat, sorrow.  The  spirit  of  the  picture,  with  its  mis- 
ery and  mystery,  touched  the  girl  deeply,  reflecting 
her  own  feelings,  bringing  to  her  darkened  faith 
Father  Clement's  teaching;  shedding  a  light  on  the 
clouds  in  her  heart.  And  in  this  hour  of  conflict  with 
self,  of  soul-wrestling,  when  she  was  trying  to  believe 
that  whatever  is,  is  for  the  best,  ultimately,  finally; 
and  that  some  day  the  ways  of  Providence  will  be 
made  clear  and  earthly  failures  shown  as  celestial 
victories — her  groping  trustfulness  received  a  blow 


224  The  GritO 

that  caused  it  to  totter  and  fall,  for  the  voice  of  Cas- 
trillo,  soft,  deep  and  mellow,  broke  the  silence  of  her 
revery. 

Josefa  started  back,  speechless  with  surprise,  for 
so  absorbed  had  her  thoughts  been  on  the  painting 
and  its  suggestion  that  the  reason  for  her  being  sum- 
moned to  the  parlor  had  entirely  escaped  her  memory 
— her  visitor  then  was  Juan  Castrillo.  She  realized 
she  was  alone  with  him,  this  suitor,  who  was  as  mean 
a  scoundrel  as  any  who  drew  breath  in  Mexico,  and 
who,  of  all  creatures  on  earth,  she  least  cared  to  see. 

"You !"  she  cried ;  "you,  Don  Juan  Castrillo !"  and 
her  voice,  though  ringing  with  contempt,  was  piteous 
in  its  tremor.  A  sob  rose  in  her  throat,  but  she 
choked  it  back  and  forthwith  began  an  accusation, 
charging  him  and  her  uncle  with  her  incarceration. 

The  haughty  Spaniard  bit  his  moustache  as  he  list- 
ened; a  frown  black  as  midnight  flitted  across  his 
brow  and  passed  away,  leaving  his  countenance  like 
marble.  Josefa's  attitude  touched  him,  melting  the 
resentment,  the  injured  pride  caused  by  her  greeting. 
Slim  though  she  was,  she  had  drawn  herself  up  until 
her  look  was  majestic,  queenly — and  yet  after  all  the 
senorita  was  only  a  girl,  frail,  helpless,  dependent. 
Castrillo  himself  had  changed  since  their  last  meet- 
ing. The  storming  of  the  Alamo,  the  belief  that  she 
was  among  the  dead,  the  agony  of  that  hour  had  had 
its  effect  so  far  as  Josefa  was  concerned.  It  had 
taught  him  that  he  really  loved  her;  that  she  was 
more  to  him  than  any  other  woman ;  that  his  love  for 
her  was  the  only  pure  passion  that  his  vile  heart  had 
ever  known.  And  yet  he  was  a  man  who  would  when 
he  would,  and  whose  purpose  to  marry  her  was  deep, 


A  Promise  is  Demanded  225 

peremptory,  coercive,  stringent.  Resistance  and 
pleading  would  avail  naught  with  such  as  he. 

"Why  are  you  here?"  he  repeated.  "Suffice  it  to 
say,  those  who  love  you  best  deemed  it  was  wisest." 

"That  is  not  true,"  contradicted  Josefa.  "Neither 
you  nor  Uncle  Ramon  could  love  me  like  Father 
Clement." 

"Father  Clement,"  Castrillo  reiterated,  with  a 
sneer  half  scorn,  half  contempt.  "No,  Josefa,  I  could 
never  love  you  like  Father  Clement — mine  is  the  love 
of  a  lover,  as  different  from  his  paternal  affection  as 
cream  from  skimmed  milk;  but  even  he  whom  you 
hold  so  high  could  not  have  selected  a  better  refuge 
in  this  time  of  war  than  a  home  with  these  holy  sis- 
ters." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  defiantly. 

"Let  me  promise  you,"  he  added,  "by  all  that  I 
hold  sacred,  on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  by  my 
sword  as  a  Mexican  officer,  that  I  shall  do  you  no 
harm,  that  my  object  and  hope  in  life  is  for  your  wel- 
fare, your  happiness — and  mine." 

His  hand  went  to  his  heart  and  he  made  a  deep 
obeisance,  like  a  hero  in  tragedy.  Josefa  laughed 
outright,  though  it  was  the  mirthless  laugh  of  one 
bordering  on  hysteria.  However,  it  cut  Castrillo 
like  a  knife,  making  him  forget  his  lofty  manner  and 
bringing  him  to  himself.  For  the  space  of  several 
moments  silence  reigned  supreme,  then  the  lover's 
voice  spoke,  low  and  full  of  tenderness : 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you  this,  to  assure  you  that 
here  no  danger  will  befall  you,  that  it  is  my  wish  to 
shelter  and  protect  you,  for  only  the  Holy  Mother 
knows  the  misery  I  endured,  the  torture  I  suffered 


226  The  Grito 

when  you  were  in  that  hole  of  a  fort,  when  General 
Santa  Anna  stormed  the  Alamo.  Now,  praise  be  to 
the  saints,  you  are  safe;  and  have  you  no  word  of 
thanks  to  whisper  in  my  ear  ?" 

Excitement  such  as  this  was  too  much  for  Josefa's 
weakened  condition,  and  great  tears  stole  down  her 
cheeks. 

"Thanks,"  she  sobbed,  "thanks— for  what?  Shut- 
ting me  up  like  a  caught  rabbit ;  separating  me  from 
Father  Clement,  the  only  being  on  earth  whom  I 
love." 

"The  only  being?"  Castrillo  sneered.  The  strands 
of  jealousy  in  his  cord  of  love  twitched  at  his  heart. 
He  did  not  know  that  Josefa  believed  Big  Terrapin 
had  slain  Daubigney,  for  if  he  had  he  would 
have  held  his  peace.  He  did  not  reason  that 
it  was  impossible  for  the  senorita  to  have  heard  of 
Daubigney's  escape  from  Goliad.  He  remembered 
simply  that  he  still  had  a  living  rival;  and  forgetting 
all  else,  such  was  his  jealousy  he  blurted  out : 

"What  of  the  Americano,  what  of  Carlos  Daubi- 
gney?" 

The  girl  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  mut- 
tered a  groan  of  unutterable  anguish.  Castrillo's 
bitter,  disappointed  love,  his  old  time  hardness  of 
heart,  his  stern  cruelty,  welled  in  his  breast  like  a 
mighty  billow,  drowning  all  pity,  all  mercy. 

"Josefa,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  may  as  well  ban- 
ish all  thought  of  that  gringo  diablo  from  your 
bosom.  I  am  here  to  speak  of  his  present,  of  your 
future.  Carlos  Daubigney  can  never  fold  you  to  his 
heart,  never  return  your  love ;  today  he  is  a  prisoner 
at  Salado,  tomorrow  he  will  be  shot." 


A  Promise  is  Demanded  227 

A  faint,  stifled  scream — and  Josef  a  fell,  a  pitiful 
little  heap  on  the  floor.  In  an  instant  Castrillo  had 
gathered  her  in  his  arms,  cursing  himself  for  the 
brutality  of  his  statement.  The  Spaniard  did  not 
call  any  one  to  her  aid.  It  was  enough  that  he  held 
her  in  his  embrace,  that  he  felt  her  heart  flutter  like 
a  tired  bird,  that  her  head  with  all  its  wealth  of 
glossy  ringlets  rested  on  his  breast.  He  took  her 
little  brown  hands  and  held  them  gently.  The  sefior- 
ita  opened  her  eyes,  sighed,  and  quickly  closed  them 
again.  Her  senses  still  drowsed,  she  did  not  push 
him  from  her;  she  could  not  see  his  eyes  glowing 
upon  her,  possessive  as  a  panther's ;  she  did  not  feel 
her  cheek  brushed  by  his  heavy  moustache  as  his 
burning  lips  were  pressed  against  her  own. 

"Speak,  speak,  my  darling!"  he  implored.  "Tell 
me  that  you  forgive  me ;  open  those  pretty  black  eyes, 
look  at  me  and  see  that  I  did  not  mean  it !" 

She  stirred  restlessly. 

"For  your  sake,  darling/'  he  cried,  "I  will  spare 
him,  he  shall  live,  but  he  can  not  have  you!  No, 
Santa  Maria !  I  love  you  too  much  for  that."  And 
the  man  tightened  his  arms  about  the  limp  figure, 
kissing  again  and  again  the  pale  lips,  and  whisper- 
ing words  of  endearment  that  fell  on  empty  air. 

The  swoon  did  not  last  much  longer.  When  the 
sefiorita  regained  consciousness,  Castrillo  was  kneel- 
ing by  her  side,  having  laid  her  on  a  rosewood  settle 
in  order  to  aid  blood  circulation. 

"Oh,  for  Father  Clement !"  was  the  burden  of  her 
sigh. 

"My  little  one,  my  chiquita,  I  will  send  for  him,  I 
will  liberate  Daubigney,  I  will  do  anything  you  may 


228  The  Grito 

ask  if  you  will  only  love  me,  only  promise  to  marry 
.me!" 

Josefa  now  sat  bolt  upright.  With  the  return  of 
consciousness,  the  return  of  memory,  a  new  strength 
seemed  to  have  come  to  her. 

"Love  you !"  But  the  ring  of  disdain  in  her  voice 
was  lost  on  Castrillo's  ear,  so  wrought  up  was  he 
with  passion. 

"Yes,  love  me!  I  will  woo  you  patiently;  I  will 
haciendo  del  oso;  I  will  walk  by  your  casement  and 
sigh  and  sigh — if  only  I  may  hope  that  some  day 
you  will  throw  me  a  token,  a  little  rose,  that  my 
sighing  has  not  been  in  vain.  Think,  Josefa,  I  have 
riches,  I  will  take  you  to  the  City  of  Mexico ;  I  will 
heap  you  with  jewels  and  give  you  all  that  gold  will 
buy,  if  you  will  only  say,  T,  Josefa,  take  thee, 
Juan/  " 

"Marry  you !"  And  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
contempt  in  her  voice  this  time.  "Never,  never, 
never !  I  would  sooner  be  the  bride  of  death  1" 

Castrillo's  face  turned  livid. 

"Then,"  he  hissed  between  clinched  teeth,  "Dau- 
bigney  dies — you  yourself  have  pronounced  his  sen- 
tence; you  yourself  have  sealed  his  death-warrant." 

Josefa  looked  at  him  with  a  world  of  reproach 
in  her  eyes,  then  stretched  out  her  arms  imploringly, 
crying: 

"Oh !  if  he  yet  lives,  spare  him,  spare  him !" 

"Not  unless  you  promise  me  I  shall  have  my  re- 
ward." He  spoke  fiercely,  bitterly,  his  eyes  gleam- 
ing like  live  coals. 

"Carlos  would  not  care  for  his  life  if  I  were  the 
ransom,  the  sacrifice,"  faltered  she. 


A  Promise  is  Demanded  229 

The  Spaniard  laughed  scornfully. 

"Do  not  fool  yourself,"  he  said,  "with  such  flat- 
tery. With  his  life  and  his  looks,  the  Americano 
would  soon  find  consolation.  There  are  eyes  as 
bright  for  him  in  Mexico  as  yours — but  not  so  with 
me.  There  are  lips  as  red  that  would  freely  return 
his  kisses,  but  no  lips  save  yours  hold  in  them  any 
sweetness  for  me.  Look  at  the  efforts  I  have  made 
to  win  you ;  look  at  the  trouble  I  have  taken  to  plead 
my  cause ;  and  ask  yourself  if  you  can  doubt  my  con- 
stancy, my  devotion,  my  love?" 

"And  you,  you  will  be  merciful  if  I  agree;  you, 
you  will  save  Carlos's  life,  you  will  give  him  his — 
freedom?"  The  words  were  hard  to  utter;  there 
was  a  hard  lump  in  her  throat  that  choked  her. 

"Cierto!  I  will  do  more,  I  will  send  him  back  to 
his  native  land  and  pray  God  to  keep  him  there.  I 
will  bring  Father  Clement  to  see  you — I  will  offer 
him  my  house  as  a  home — only  promise  to  marry 
me,  to  be  mine,  the  wife  of  my  bosom  !"• 

The  senorita  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  her 
body  quivered  with  emotion.  She  felt  she  would 
rather  steal  into  the  convent  chapel  and  take  the 
veil  for  life — renouncing  Carlos  meant  giving  up 
the  world;  he  was  her  world.  A  nun's  bare  cell, 
alone  with  Daubigney's  memory,  would  be  prefera- 
ble to  a  palace  shared  with  Castrillo.  It  was  the 
hardest  trial  that  had  ever  confronted  her — and  yet, 
Daubigney's  life,  the  life  of  him  whom  she  loved 
above  all  else,  even  more  than  her  own  soul,  de- 
pended upon  her  answer.  How  could  she  refuse? 
But  how  could  she  yield?  She  looked  about  her 
with  a  wild  stare — was  there  no  other  way  to  save 


230  The  Grito 

the  Virginian?  No  other  possibility  that  his  life 
might  be  rescued  save  by  submission  to  this  mon- 
ster's will?  She,  Josefa,  stood  in  the  way  of  Car- 
los's  liberty ;  her  love  for  him  was  the  barrier  to  his 
freedom — and  faithfulness  to  him  meant  the  for- 
feiture of  her  own  happiness.  Would  Daubigney 
ever  appreciate  the  reasons  actuating  her  to  accept 
Castrillo;  or  would  he  deem  her  inconstant,  fickle, 
veered  by  the  winds  of  chance?  His  welfare,  his 
freedom,  his  life  were  dearer  to  her  than  existence ; 
she  believed  she  could  die  for  him;  but  to  live  for 
him,  to  live  for  him  as  Castrillo's  wife — that  was 
tenfold  harder,  ten  times  more  terrible.  No  greater 
evidence  of  love  could  any  love  demand  than  the 
sacrifice  she  was  contemplating.  Josefa  felt  her- 
self growing  dizzy ;  her  ears  seemed  full  of  roaring, 
the  nervous  tension  was  too  much ;  she  broke  down 
utterly,  her  head  drooping  like  a  violet  on  its  slender 
stem.  Her  body  shook  with  anguish,  but  her  quiv- 
ering lips  emitted  no  sound  of  consent. 
There  was  an  ominous  silence. 

Castrillo  was  pacing  the  floor  nervously.  He  be- 
lieved in  time  she  would  change  and  that  his  pas- 
sion for  her  would  awaken  responsiveness.  He 
tried  to  curb  his  feelings  and  to  wait,  but  the  min- 
utes seemed  ages.  At  last  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  He  pulled  Josefa's  head  down  on  his 
shoulder  and  besought  her  to  give  him  the  answer 
he  craved. 

"Do  not  reject  my  love !"  he  pleaded.  "This  pas- 
sion that  almost  consumes  me  will  some  day  find  an 
echo  in  your  heart;  for  my  love  for  you  is  bound- 


A  Promise  is  Demanded  231 

less,  immeasurable,  and  only  swear  that  you  will 
marry  me — and  I  am  yours  to  command,  to  rule." 

And  the  senorita,  feeling  as  if  a  vampire  were 
sucking  her  heart's  blood,  sobbingly  gasped: 

"I — I — will — promise, — but — you  — must  — keep 
—  your  word  —  about  Carlos, — you — must — set — 
him— free." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A    HEINOUS   LOTTERY 

The  courtyard  of  the  Hacienda  of  Salado  pre- 
sented a  strange  scene  for  Sunday,  a  day  conse- 
crated to  rest,  to  peace.  A  company  of  cavalry  and 
infantry  were  drawn  up  close  to  where  huddled  the 
remnant  of  the  Mier  Expedition,  who,  silent  and 
depressed,  listened  to  a  Mexican  officer,  Juan  Cas- 
trillo,  who  read  a  message  from  President  Santa 
Anna,  prescribing  the  punishment  to  be  meted  to 
those  that  had  attempted  escape. 

It  was  the  refinement  of  cruelty,  the  perfection 
of  perfidy,  the  foulest  treachery.  A  plan  that  could 
only  have  originated  in  the  brain  of  a  demon  like 
Santa  Anna,  and  only  been  executed  in  a  land  in- 
fected by  the  shadow  of  the  Inquisition. 

Many  of  the  Texas  Rangers  could  not  under- 
stand Mexican  sufficiently  to  comprehend  the 
cruelty  couched  in  the  verbose  message  of  the 
tyrant,  and  so  Castrillo,  in  fiendish  derision,  com- 
manded a  subaltern  to  hand  the  paper  to  Carlos 
Daubigney,  who  was  ordered  to  interpret  it  to  his 
comrades,  the  Americanos. 

It  was  a  detestable,  a  diabolical  commission;  and 
Dabney,  having  understood  its  purport,  and  know- 
ing Castrillo's  reason  for  selecting  him,  cursed  the 
Spaniard  to  his  face. 


A  Heinous  Lottery  233 

"No,"  the  Virginian  said,  "I  will  not  read  it,  and 
if  my  hands  were  not  shackled  I  would  ram  Santa 
Anna's  message  down  your  throat!'* 

A  smile  satyric  and  satanic  shone  on  Castrillo's 
face  as  he  sneered : 

"Carlos  Daubigney  can  afford  to  boast  of  his 
prowess,  his  strength,  seeing  he  will  have  no  oppor- 
tunity to  prove  himself  a  liar." 

A  look  of  malignant  triumph  accompanied  these 
words,  and  the  man  licked  his  tongue  against  his 
moustache  like  a  cat  might  lick  its  whiskers  after 
a  tempting  morsel,  then  continued: 

"But  the  Americano  should  learn  of  my  nation 
suavity.  Such  rudeness  is  not  in  keeping  with  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman,  to  one  who  might  have 
proven  himself  a  friend  in  need,  a  benefactor.  It 
is  within  my  power  to  punish  you  for  it,  Carlos 
Daubigney,  for  insubordination  to  an  officer  of  Gen- 
eralissimo Santa  Anna  is  no  light  offense — and  I 
shall  reckon  with  you  by  and  by;  meanwhile  the 
sun  dips  low,  and  you  can  contemplate  with  the 
pleasure  of  anticipation  my  clemency  when  you  see 
me  discharge  my  duty  to  these  other  rebels,  these 
gringos — Caramba!" 

The  Rangers  then  heard,  amid  a  breathless  hush, 
Castrillo  translate  into  English  Santa  Anna's  de- 
cree, ordering  that  every  tenth  prisoner  be  shot. 
This  decimation  was  to  be  decided  by  chance.  It 
was  a  heinous  lottery.  A  jar  with  a  handkerchief 
thrown  over  it  was  passed  to  each  Texan,  who  was 
bidden  to  draw.  It  contained  one  hundred  and 
seventy-six  beans,  seventeen  of  which  were  black. 
The  drawers  of  the  black  beans  were  those  doomed 


234  The  Grito 

to  suffer  death  for  the  attempted  escape.  The  others 
were  to  be  confined  in  the  dungeon  of  Perote. 

The  Mexican  guards  stood  ready  with  fire-locks 
cocked.  The  Rangers  were  placed  in  a  line,  and 
as  each  man's  name  was  called  his  handcuffs  were 
unfastened  for  him  to  decide  his  fate. 

Pale,  but  undaunted  and  fearless,  the  Texans  be- 
gan to  draw.  Never  had  the  world  witnessed  such 
a  lottery! 

Some  of  the  Mexicans  shut  their  eyes  that  they 
might  not  see,  but  the  majority  bent  eagerly  for- 
ward and  looked  with  the  intentness  with  which 
they  would  have  witnessed  a  cock-fight.  Castrillo 
enjoyed  the  situation.  Every  now  and  then  he 
would  look  at  Daubigney  and  wink  significantly, 
begging  him  to  have  patience,  assuring  him  that 
his  time  would  come  soon  enough.  The  other  cap- 
tives, too,  felt  the  sting  of  Castrillo's  baseness.  To 
some  he  would  say  blandly: 

"Take  your  leisure,  mi  mino,  my  child !" 

Then  to  others  in  the  most  solicitous  tone : 

"Be  careful,  mi  pobrecito,  my  poor  fellow,  for  if 
you  draw  a  black  bean  it  means  you  will  be  shot." 

All  the  Mexicans  watched  anxiously  when  brave 
Cameron  drew,  for  earnestly  they  hoped  a  black 
bean  would  end  his  fate. 

"Dig  deep,  Capt. !"  cried  his  men,  and  the  Scot's 
hand  came  forth  clutching  a  little  white  bean. 

One  Ranger,  who  had  been  a  noted  gambler, 
when  the  jar  was  passed  to  him,  exclaimed: 

"Boys,  'tis  the  highest  stake  I  ever  played  for." 
And  pulling  out  a  black  bean,  added  with  a  tinge  of 
sadness  in  his  voice,  "Just  my  luck !" 


A  Heinous  Lottery  235 

When  Wallace's  turn  came,  as  his  hand  corre- 
sponded with  his  foot,  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  squeezed  it  into  the  jar.  The  beans  were  few 
now  and  it  was  hard  to  pick  up  one. 

"Don't  pull  out  two,"  cautioned  Castrillo,  "for 
if  you  do  and  one  is  black,  you  would  have  to  take 
it,  and  that,  caramba!  would  be  unfortunate." 

Carefully  Big  Foot  felt  the  beans  his  fingers  had 
scraped  together,  until  he  selected  the  smallest  bean 
he  could  find;  it  proved  to  be  a  white  one. 

Castrillo  had  kept  score  of  the  black  beans  that 
had  been  drawn  and  knew  only  one  more  remained 
in  the  jar. 

"There  is  still  another  plum  in  the  pot,"  he  said 
jeeringly,  "and  now — don't  all  speak  at  once — who 
shall  have  the  first  chance  at  it?" 

His  keen  black  eyes  glittered  like  a  cougar's  as, 
wandering  down  the  line  of  Rangers,  his  gaze  fell 
upon  Daubigney.  It  was  the  look  with  which  a 
beast  seeks  to  terrorize,  to  paralyze  its  prey ;  but  not 
a  muscle  in  the  Virginian's  face  quivered — he  stood 
calm,  collected,  his  lips  compressed. 

"You  there,  Daubigney,  you  are  a  favorite;  you 
might  as  well  have  this  plum,  this  prize ;  yours  shall 
be  the  privilege  of  drawing  next." 

Deep  sighs  escaped  the  other  prisoners,  for  the 
intrepid  bravery  with  which  the  Virginian  not  only 
ignored  Castrillo's  taunts,  but  met  every  danger, 
inspired  in  all  who  knew  him  the  sincerest  admira- 
tion for  his  courage. 

He  stood  now  with  no  sign  of  fear  in  his  steel- 
blue  eyes;  and  without  a  flinch  of  hesitation  had 
his  shackles  removed. 


236  The  Grito 

"Now  is  the  time  for  us  to  wipe  out  old  scores !" 
said  the  Spaniard.  Then,  noting  the  man's  manner, 
exclaimed:  "Santissima  Virgen!  you  must  have  a 
good  conscience  to  stare  death  in  the  face  like  that. 
No,  it  will  hurt  you  more  to  live  than  to  die  when 
you  know  a  little  secret  I  shall  tell  you  later  on; 
step  back,  and  let  Patrick  Jack  take  your  place. 

This  irregularity  of  procedure  confused  the  cor- 
poral, who,  hastening  to  unfasten  the  Irishman's 
cuffs,  did  not  notice  that  the  Virginian  had  stepped 
back  into  line  with  his  hands  still  free,  for  Patrick 
Jack  riveted  every  one's  attention  on  himself.  His 
wrathful  indignation  contrasted  strangely  with 
Daubigney's  calmness. 

"Och !  It's  fer  murdherin'  mesilf  that  ye  be,  ye 
bloody  spalpheen!  wid'out  jidge  or  jury.  Oi  see 
thot  as  plain  as  th'  nose  on  yer  mugs,  yer  ugly  na- 
gers.  'Tis  thot  ye  are  thryin'  to  do.  Ye  sint  me 
to  pr-rison  an'  me  f rinds  got  me  out,  but  if  ye  sind 
me  to  be  shot  Oi'll  nivver  git  over  it ;  no,  not  while 
Oi  live.  Begorrah!  'tain't  fair;  'tis  th'  damndest 
wurruk  of  haythen  intoirely,  decavin'  an'  innocen' 
ma-an  to  his  desthruction.  Faith!  an'  besides  yer 
don't  gin  me  a  fair  chanct,  fer  awll  th'  be-ans  are 
picked  over,  wid  no  choice  left  at  awll,  at  awll.  It 
is  not  roight — but  what  do  yer  cowld  hearts  know 
of  roight,  ye  blood-thir-risty  nagers.  Divvil  take 
sich  a  lot-ther-ry  says  Oi !" 

Though  the  Mexicans  could  not  understand  his 
drollery,  his  facial  expression  amused  them,  so  that 
his  remonstrances  were  indulged. 

"Arrah  me  honeys!"  Jack  continued,  "Oi  hev  a 
good  mind  not  to  put  me  han'  near  that  damn  jar, 


A  Heinous  Lottery  237 

but  afther  awll  it's  a  lot-ther-ry  an'  'tis  no  more 
loikely  that  Patr-rick  Jack  will  dhraw  a  black  be-an 
than  that  th'  Ould  Boy  wud  cross  himsilf  wid  holy 
water — so  here  goes." 

When  a  shriveled  white  bean  was  produced,  the 
shout :  "Erin  go  bragh !  Hooray  fer  ould  Oireland ! 
Hooray  fer  Saint  Patr-rick !"  accompanied  it,  drown- 
ing the  congratulations  of  his  Ranger  friends. 
While  the  Irishman  eyed  the  bean  as  if  it  were  the 
Kohinoor,  he  added : 

"  Tis  betther  to  be  a  lucky  fool  than  a  dead  hero, 
Oi'm  a  thinkin',  fer  me  poor  human  fingers  picked 
a  black  be-an  but  Oi  had  prayed  to  th'  good  Saint 
Patr-rick,  an'  th'  darlin'  changed  it  to  a  whoite 
wan — 'twas  a  mir-raculous  mir-racle  what  saved  me, 
nawthin'  shor-rt  av  a  mir-racle." 

The  lottery  now  soon  ended. 

Castrillo  put  the  seventeen  black  beans  in  his  vest 
pocket,  then  ordered  the  soldiers  to  blindfold  the 
victims.  When  this  was  done  the  little  band  of 
patriots  were  marched  out  into  the  open  field  and 
—shot. 

The  Rangers  left  behind  could  hear  the  signal 
taps  of  the  drums,  the  quick  burst  of  discharge,  the 
groans  of  anguish.  It  was  the  work  of  a  minute — 
but  it  stained  Mexico's  honor  forever. 

The  profile  of  the  mountains  was  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  The  sun,  like  a  wound  in  the  side 
of  heaven,  weltered  the  sky  with  its  gore ;  and  over- 
spreading the  short  twilight  stole  a  dull,  ashen  hue — 
then  the  light  of  the  day  went  out,  the  shadows 
widened,  deepened,  darkened;  for  a  moment  the 


238  The  Grito 

wind  blew  chill  as  if  nipped  by  the  frost  of  Death ; 
then  all  was  still — like  rest  eternal. 

Many  was  the  tear  that  stole  down  rough  cheeks 
when  the  captives,  crushed  and  bitter,  were  returned 
to  their  prison.  Horror-stricken  and  desperate,  they 
thought  of  the  day's  work  and  wondered  what  the 
morrow  would 'bring.  They  were  to  be  taken  to 
Perote,  the  strongest  dungeons  in  all  Mexico,  far 
from  all  help,  all  succor,  all  deliverance.  Some  of 
the  Rangers  had  heard  of  this  Perote,  this  strong- 
hold, this  fortress,  with  its  foul  atmosphere  and  mas- 
sive walls,  verily  a  living  tomb. 

As  night  deepened,  depression  increased.  None 
of  the  Rangers  talked — their  pitiful  whispered  con- 
jectures ceased ;  there  was  no  word  of  comfort  to  be 
spoken — they  were  all  weary,  heart-broken,  misera- 
ble, desperate. 

The  seconds  crept  by  at  a  tortoise  speed.  With- 
out, in  the  corridor,  could  be  heard  the  heavy,  slow, 
uniform  tramp  of  the  Mexican  guard,  who  every 
fifteen  minutes  cried,  "Centinela  alerta!"  but  it 
seemed  years,  decades,  aeons  between  his  call,  for 
silence  brooded  like  a  vampire  on  the  damp,  chill 
prison  air.  The  place  seemed  alive  with  insects; 
rats  also  skurried  across  the  mouldy  floor  as  if  pur- 
sued by  some  phantom  of  fear ;  while  huge  bats, 
spying  the  feeble  flicker  of  a  gibbous  moon,  struck 
their  wings  against  the  iron  gratings  of  the  win- 
dows. 

There  was  a  murmurous  stir  among  the  Rangers 
as  they  heard  the  bolts  of  the  ponderous  door  being 
slowly  withdrawn.  The  rusty  hinges  creaked,  while 
the  light  from  the  corridor  dimly  pervaded  the  cling- 


A  Heinous  Lottery  239 

ing  gloom  as  a  sergeant  entered  with  clanking  sword 
and  in  broken  English,  impossible  to  repeat,  sum- 
moned Carlos  Daubigney  to  come  with  him. 

Quick  as  a  flash  Patrick  Jack  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  asked: 

"Ar-re  ye  shure  he's  th'  ma-an  ye  want." 

The  Mexican  replied  in  the  affirmative,  adding: 

"Cierto!  the  gringo  that  didn't  draw  a  white 
bean." 

"Now,  Oi  see  fer  mesilf,"  said  Jack,  "that  ye  ar-re 
not  shure  afther  awll — ye  don't  know  what  yer 
dhrivin  at;  fer  was  it  th'  ma-an  that  didn't  draw  a 
be-an  or  was  it  th'  sojer  that  vowed  by  awll  th' 
saints  he  wud  nivver  draw  a  black  wan?" 

The  Mexican,  who  was  a  dullard,  better  suited 
to  Work  in  the  mines  of  Zacatecas  than  to  fill  a  ser- 
geant's place,  seemed  puzzled ;  and  Patrick,  with  an 
Irishman's  intuition,  quickly  grasped  this  pretext 
like  a  drowning  man  a  straw. 

"No,  begorrah!  Oi  nivver  saw  sich  a  nager  as 
ye,  ye  spalpeen!  'Tis  a  sutler  ye  ar-re  fitted  to  be, 
not  a  serjint,  fer  ye  don't  know  yer  own  biziniss  an' 
'tis  Oi  that  have  to  tell  ye ;  it  may  as  loike  be  mesilf 
ye  ar-re  wantin',  or,  me  honey,  it  may  be  Dar-rbeny. 
Shure,  if  ye  shud  take  us  both  along,  so  as  to  not 
make  a  misthake,  it  will  be  awll  roight.  It's  like  th' 
mimor-ry  an'  th'  forgitfulniss,  ye  must  have  'em 
both  in  yer  hear-rt  to  be  a  thrue  success." 

And  as  the  Irishman  arose  he  whispered  to  the 
Virginian : 

"Lave  me  to  dale  wid  him;  an'  feel  aisy,  but 
whativer  ye  do,  hold  yer  hands  loike  they  was  thied ; 


240  The  Grito 

that's  whoi  Oi  be  stickin'  by  ye,  my  darlin',  closter 
than  a  brother." 

The  two  Rangers  were  soon  ushered  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Juan  Castrillo.  He  sat  in  a  small  room 
alone.  His  sword,  out  of  the  scabbard,  lay  on  the 
table  before  him,  the  jewels  in  the  silver  hilt  glit- 
tering in  the  candlelight.  A  carafe  partly  filled  with 
pulque  and  a  wine  bottle,  nearly  empty,  also  sat  on 
the  table,  close  to  two  glasses.  It  was  plain  both 
Castrillo  and  the  sergeant  had  been  drinking  heav- 
ily, but  the  intoxicant  effected  them  differently. 
The  Mexican's  brain  was  bemuddled,  while  Cas- 
trillo's,  accustomed  to  strong  stimulants,  was 
brighter,  more  brilliant  than  usual.  His  manner, 
ever  mendacious,  was  more  vainglorious,  cunning 
and  covinous  than  it  had  been  in  the  courtyard. 

"It  is  Seflor  Carlos  Daubigney,  is  it  not  ?"  he  said, 
bowing  in  mock  solemnity. 

"An*,  yer  honor,  Patr-rick  Jack,  too,"  announced 
the  Irishman,  whose  bow  in  return  equalled  that  of 
a  clown  in  a  circus  ring. 

"And,  didblo!  who  summoned  you?"  asked  Cas- 
trillo haughtily. 

But  the  son  of  Erin  was  incorrigible,  and  quick 
came  the  reply: 

"Me  own  best  friend — me  mother  Wit;  seein' 
yer  serjint  in  that  respict  was  a  helpless  or-rphin." 

Castrillo  laughed,  and  Patrick,  taking  advantage 
of  his  humor,  added,  nodding  to  the  table : 

"Oi  says  to  mesilf,  'Shure,  if  th'  Mexican  Gin'ral 
is  dacent  'nough  to  send  fer  Dar-rbeny  to  dhrink 
wid  him  a  tippler,  shure,  Oi'm  a  pathrite  too,  an' 
th'  more  th'  mer-rier,  as  th'  ould  sayin'  goes;  fer 


A  Heinous  Lottery  241 

water  an*  prison  fare  may  make  a  sthrong,  a  glor- 
yous  app-eal  to  th'  mind,  but  nivver  to  th'  stomach ; 
it  is  aven  worse  than  a  relijous  fast,  it  desthroys  th' 
cour-ridge  of  th'  bravest  throops.'  Water  may  be 
awll  roight  on  th'  outside,  but  on  th'  inside — niv- 
ver! an'  so  if  Oi'm  to  ner-rve  mesilf  fer  a  long 
mar-rch  ter-morrow,  a  wee  dr-rap  o'  dram  wud  give 
strength  to  me  legs,  an' — " 

"Shut  up !"  said  Castrillo ;  then  laughingly  added : 
"Sergeant,  fill  that  gringo's  mouth  with  pulque,  so 
he  can't  talk." 

"An  illegant  gin'ral  ye  be,  entoirely,  entoirely; 
an'  ye  will  foind  that  Patr-rick  Jack  can  presarve  a 
silence  now,  aqual  to  th'  dead/' 

Turning  to  Dabney,  the  Spaniard  continued: 

"I  have  a  treat  in  store  for  you  also — a  favor  to 
bestow;  and  a  favor  from  an  enemy,  senor,  to  a 
proud,  arrogant  spirit,  such  as  you  showed  yourself 
today,  will  be  like  a  pebble  in  the  shoe,  a  splinter  in 
the  heel.  I  have  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  no  longer  under  a  ban — the  ban  of  love  at  least ; 
that  there  you  are  free;  for  with  Josefa  a  stronger 
tie  has  been  forged." 

The  Spaniard  eyed  the  Virginian  keenly,  mali- 
ciously, and  though  his  moustache  was  heavy,  it  did 
not  conceal  the  cruel  lines  about  his  mouth,  for  Cas- 
trillo was  snarling,  not  smiling,  as  he  supposed.  He 
knew  his  slightest  reference  to  Josefa,  like  cham- 
pagne froth,  would  make  Dabney  drunk  with  rage, 
and  so  his  plan  was  to  torture  him. 

"For  the  sake  of  Josefa  Urrea,  my — promised — 
wife — "  Castrillo  spoke  slowly,  deliberately,  and 


242  The  Grito 

now  paused  for  a  moment  to  note  the  effect  his 
words  produced. 

The  blood  leaped  darkly  to  Dabney's  cheek ;  rage 
and  turmoil  made  him  quiver  like  an  aspen  leaf,  so1 
that  the  Spaniard  gloated  in  the  exaltation  of  his 
malevolence,  as  he  repeated : 

"For  the  sake  of  Josefa  Urrea,  my  promised 
wife,  I  have  given  my  word  as  a  Mexican  patriot 
that  you  shall  not  share  the  fate  of  the  other  Rang- 
ers."' 

Again  there  was  a  pause — a  terrible  pause. 

Daubigney  bit  his  lips  to  silence  the  denial,  the 
curse  that  sprang  to  them,  for  no  good  could  come 
from  contradicting  this  scoundrel.  Castrillo,  dis- 
appointed that  his  sallies  met  with  no  retort,  began 
to  think  that  the  Virginian  did  not  take  him  in 
earnest. 

"The  sefior,"  he  sneered,  "is  pleased  to  disbelieve 
me ;  to  think  it  is  a  fabrication ;  to  comfort  his  heart 
with  the  memory  of  the  little  senorita  that  fancied 
she  cared  for  him  because  she  did  not  know  what 
love  really  was — until  I  taught  her." 

Never  before  in  his  whole  life  had  Daubigney 
occasion  to  practice  such  self-control.  His  hands 
were  free,  his  ringers  itching  to  clasp  themselves 
around  Castrillo's  throat  and  choke  the  lie  out  of 
him  along  with  his  life — but  the  noise  of  such  a 
struggle,  for  the  Spaniard  was  compactly  and  wirily 
built,  would  quickly  have  brought  the  sentinel  from 
the  corridor,  even  if  the  sergeant  did  not  finish  the 
fray  with  a  shot  from  his  musket.  So  in  a  voice  re- 
strained and  impressive  the  Virginian  asked: 


A  Heinous  Lottery  243 

"Why  do  you  waste  time  in  telling  me  this;  for 
naught  that  you  or  any  one  might  say  would  ever 
shake  my  faith  in  Josefa's  loyalty." 

The  assurance  with  which  Daubigney  spoke,  to- 
gether with  Castrillo's  memory  of  the  condition 
under  which  Josefa  had  yielded  to  his  suit,  aroused 
the  venom  in  his  breast,  so  that  his  black  eyes 
gleamed  like  a  cobra's  when  he  raises  his  crest  to 
strike. 

"Caramba!"  he  hissed,  "my  lips  can  still  taste  the 
sweetness  of  her  mouth,  my  arms  can  still  feel  the 
pressure  of  her  quivering  breast  as  she  nestled  in 
them — for  I  am  just  from  Monterey,  where  my  chi- 
quita  is  waiting  to  be  wedded." 

With  an  ill-concealed  joy,  Castrillo  observed  that 
despite  Daubigney' s  plastic  calm  his  breath  came 
hard  and  labored.  Continuing,  he  said: 

"Josefa's  gentle  nature,  that  would  not  tread  on 
even  a  worm,  pleaded  with  me  for  the  sake  of  your 
friendship  with  the  Priest,  that  you  should  not  be 
imprisoned  or  shot — and  so,  to  humor  her  whim, 
I  promised ;  but  a  promise  to  a  woman  is  subject  to 
man's  discretion  to  fulfil  as  he  deems  best.  An  ob- 
stinate, persistent  nature  seems  to  characterize  you, 
Senor  Daubigney,  and  it  will  not  therefore  be  diffi- 
cult to  convert  you  into  a  mule.  In  the  future  you 
will  haul  dirt,  hitched  to  a  cart,  you  understand,  and 
your  prowess,  your  boasted  strength  shall  have  am- 
ple means  for  exercise  in  helping  thus  to  make  the 
road  to  Santa  Anna's  palace.  And  if  on  our  drives 
my  wife  should  chance  to  see  you  and  query  as  to 
what  you  are,  I  shall  tell  her  God  perchance  in- 


244  The  Grito 

tended  it  for  a  man,  but  that  the  poor  creature  has 
made  an  ass  of  himself  for  life." 

The  Virginian's  face  was  white  as  marble;  the 
the  paroxysm  of  blood-heat  had  passed  away;  for 
out  of  the  degradation  of  Castrillo's  insult  rose  the 
phoenix  of  hope — he  might  yet  escape,  he  might 
yet  claim  Josefa,  he  might  yet  overcome ;  and  think- 
ing thus,  he  mumbled  half  audibly : 

"The  jawbone  of  an  ass  once  wrought  destruc- 
tion to  a  hostile  horde."  But  his  hearers  did  not 
understand  this  reference.  , 

The  sergeant  was  then  ordered  to  take  the  cap- 
tives from  the  room. 

"But  don't  put  them  with  the  other  prisoners," 
cautioned  Castrillo;"  put  them  in  the  calaboza,  the 
guardhouse,  for  it  would  not  suit  me  to  have  them 
escape."  And,  satisfied  with  his  revenge,  the  Span- 
iard gulped  down  a  glass  of  wine  as  Daubigney  and 
Jack  were  marched  away. 

Now  while  Castrillo  had  been  venting  his  spleen, 
the  sergeant  had  been  satisfying  his  thirst  with 
pulque,  so,  though  he  was  not  yet  drunk  in  his  legs, 
he  was  in  his  brain.  And  instead  of  conveying  his 
prisoners  to  the  guardhouse  he  opened  the  wrong 
door  and  put  them  in  a  shed-room  of  the  Hacienda. 
There  he  left  them,  believing,  with  a  drunken  man's 
confidence,  that  all  was  right.  Hardly  had  the  door 
closed  after  him  before  Jack  whispered: 

"Faith,  Dar-rbeny,  th'  iny'brite  fool  is  as  full  of 
misthakes  as  praties  in  a  hill ;  an'  Oi  relish  'em  much 
aloike.  An'  now  Oi'm  got  an  ijee  in  my  head 
that's  took  root  as  a  seed  shud,  an'  since  th'  soil 
seems  to  be  fertile,  Oi  see  no  raison  whoi  it  shu'dn't 


A  Heinous  Lottery  245 

blossom  this  ver-ry  night.  Oi'm  fer  makin'  me 
escape.  'Tis  noble  to  doie  loike  a  pathrite,  but  'tis 
betther  to  live  fer  yer  counthry !  What  say  ye,  Dar- 
rbeny?  That's  a  sthrong  an'  sthraight  ar-rjimint 
an'  wud  convince  a  whole  coort  as  tistimony — but 
Patr-rick  Jack  ain't  tur-rnin'  spaker ;  shure,  tho'  Oi'm 
fer  tur-rnin'  mole  an'  scr-ratchin'  dir-rt  f'r  me 
loife." 

Dabney  was  silent,  busy  with  his  thoughts. 

"What  say  ye?  Come,  me  darlint,  cheer  up  an' 
have  done  wid  yer  foolin'.  Ye  needn't  mind  Patr- 
rick  Jack  knowin'  yer  saycret.  A  blind  field-marshal 
wud  have  knowed  it  widout  th'  help  of  a  spoy-glass. 
It's  about  yer  swatehear-rt  Oi'm  a  meanin' — th' 
little  Mexican.  Faith!  Oi  was  goin'  to  say,  but  Oi 
will  not  thread  on  yer  bunion,  Oi  will  spare  yer  feel- 
in's ;  howsomiver,  mesilf  wud  have  wished  she  was 
whoite,  wid  a  purty  blue  oye — but  it  ain't  Patr-rick 
that  has  got  to  look  in  it  f'r  th'  rest  av  his  loife,  it's 
Dar-rbeny  that's  got  to  be  plased  annyhow.  An' 
fer  that  matther,  Deaf  Smith  married  a  punkin  face 
an'  Jim  Bowie  too,  an'  it  nivver  hinder'd  'em  fr'm 
gr-rowin'  illusthr-rous — fer  a  woife  ofthener  makes 
a  ma-an  than  mars  him,  Oi'm  belavin',  jidgin'  by 
sich  livin'  evidince  as  haythen  bachelor-rs.  So  whin 
it  comes  to  mathrimony,  Oi  says,  says  Oi  to  mesilf, 
each  to  his  loikin',  an'  me  own  loikin'  is  to  r-remain 
single  ivry  toime;  that's  a  sure  way  not  to  make  a 
misthake,  Dar-rbeny.  But  don't  let  me  dampen  yer 
sperits,  fer  Oi'm  a  wishin'  ye  good  luck  jist  th' 
same,  an'  th'  smoile  av  th'  saints;  an'  may  Patr- 
rick,  dhressed  in  his  rigimintals,  be  pr-resent  to 
dance  at  th'  cirimony — but  howsomiver  purty  an' 


246  The  Grito 

atthractive  a  woman  may  be,  she  can't  have  a  wed- 
din'  widout  a  bridegroom  annymore  than  a  wake 
widout  a  corpse;  so  Oi'm  fer  gettin'  yer  away, 
along  wid  mesilf,  an'  that  in  a  hurry,  this  very 
minyit." 

While  the  Irishman  had  been  talking,  Daubigney 
had  been  examining  the  wall. 

"Pat,"  he  said,  "this  is  not  adobe,  it's  wood,  and 
not  tightly  built  at  that." 

"A  blessin'  on  th'  head  av  sich  a  builder,  says  Oi ; 
an'  here's  me  pr-rayer  that  his  sowl  may  nivver 
flound  in  pur-rgithory ;  but  come,  ma-an,  unless  yer 
be  wantin'  to  go  thar  yersilf,  an'  unthoie  me  hands. 
Oi  have  alr-rheady  spat  in  'em,  an'  they're  ready 
fer  wurruk." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  captives  succeeded  in 
making  an  opening  sufficiently  large  for  them  to 
squeeze  through,  for  the  timber,  old  and  rotten, 
easily  gave  to  the  force  brought  to  bear  upon  it. 

"Faith !"  puffed  Jack,  taking  a  long  breath  of  the 
night's  air,  "if  th'  bloody  spalpheens  had  kept  me 
shut  up  much  longer,  a  starvin'  th'  meat  off  me 
bones  an'  the  stren'th  out  av  me  muscle,  sure  Oi 
wud  have  made  me  escape  thro'  the  kayhole,  an' 
that  widout  a  pinch ;  but  Gawd  be  praised !  we  are 
free  widout  bein'  beholdin'  to  sich  murdherin'  vil- 
lyuns!" 

The  sky  was  gray  with  starlight,  but  in  the  court- 
yard the  shadows  of  the  walls  of  the  Hacienda  made 
a  darkness  grateful  to  the  fugitives,  who  carefully 
groped  their  way  toward  the  gate.  Charles  Dab- 
ney  was  in  the  lead,  holding  in  his  hand  a  formida- 
ble cudgel,  a  piece  of  plank  rent  from  the  side  of  the 


A  Heinous  Lottery  247 

shed  through  which  they  had  passed.  Soon  the  in- 
distinct outlines  of  the  weary  sentinel's  figure,  catch- 
ing a  wink  of  rest,  met  their  gaze.  The  Virginian, 
coming  upon  him  first,  gave  him  a  lick  on  the  head 
that  put  him  to  sleep  forever,  that  felled  him  to 
earth,  dead  as  a  nine-pin.  Patrick  Jack  picked  up 
the  escoepta  that  dropped  from  the  lifeless  hand, 
and  Dabney,  stooping  down,  undid  his  sword 
and  appropriated  it  for  his  own  use ;  and  thus  armed, 
the  Rangers,  with  renewed  caution,  sought  the  sta- 
ble. It  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment,  as  they  met 
with  no  opposition,  to  saddle  two  horses  and  steal 
out  into  the  night.  Leading  his  animal  through  the 
courtyard,  Dabney  stopped  at  the  gate  arid  picked 
up  the  limp  body  of  the  sentinel  and  threw  it  over 
his  pommel,  saying: 

"A  dead  man  might  tell  a  tale  here,  but  nobody 
will  find  him  down  in  the  canon." 

"Roight  ye  be,  me  darlin',  fer  it  will  give  th' 
bloody  nagers  somethin'  to  think  on  to  thrack  him, 
an'  thin  we'll  be  over  th'  hills  an'  far  away,  Oi  am 
ahopin' ;  an'  so  long  as  ye  totes  th'  gr-ruesome  thing, 
mesilf  is  not  goin'  to  objict,  f  r  'tain't  to  Patr-rick's 
taste  to  be  huggin'  a  loive  Gr-reaser,  much  less  a 
dead  wan;  but  ye're  differ-rent."  The  Irishman 
laughed  in  a  low  way,  and  then  added: 

"But,  Dar-rbeny,  didn't  ye  nivver  hear-r  how  that 
two  was  a  compiny  an'  thr-ree  was  a  cr-rowd?  A 
graveyar-rd  full  cud  be  no  wor-rse,  an'  Oi'll  not  en- 
joy me  ride  nor  fale  aisy  entoirely  till  yer  thr-row 
him  away,  the  car-rion." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   SEARCH 

The  escaping  prisoners'  nerves  were  stretched  to 
the  tension  of  frenzy  as  they  again  found  themselves 
free  from  the  confines  of  the  Hacienda  of  Salado. 
Would  they  be  able  to  get  away  successfully  this 
time,  or  would  failure  confront  them  as  it  had  done 
before?  The  mere  thought  of  what  recapture  would 
mean,  the  possibility  that  the  Mexicans  might  catch 
them,  made  them  desperate  in  their  anxiety,  their 
haste. 

The  night  had  become  blacker,  but  the  horses  in 
their  instinct  kept  the  road  with  little  deviation,  and 
neck  and  neck  Charles  Dabney  and  Patrick  Jack 
went  for  an  hour  or  more  before  drawing  rein  to 
give  their  mounts  a  breathing  spell;  then  on  they 
spurred  again,  their  horses  responding  gamely  with 
a  tremendous  burst  of  speed.  The  road  was  hard 
and  even  and  they  thundered  on  in  a  steady  lope. 
Neither  Dabney  nor  Jack  spoke  a  word;  it  was  no 
time  to  talk,  and  the  puffing  of  their  steeds  and  the 
rattle  of  hoofs  was  the  only  sound  audible.  The 
Rangers,  not  conscious  of  cruelty,  flogged  their 
horses  relentlessly,  knowing  only  that  on  their  swift- 
ness depended  salvation. 


The  Search  249 

The  way,  the  old  Saltillo  Road,  twisted  like  a 
contortionist  in  making  its  steep  descent  down  the 
mountain.  The  passage  became  less  wide,  more 
serpentine  as  it  narrowed  and  zigzagged  into  little 
more  than  a  bridle  path.  It  now  became  necessary, 
imperative,  for  the  riders  to  proceed  more  cautiously, 
slower,  and  in  single  file ;  but  so  great  a  distance  had 
been  covered  that  there  was  no  longer  the  fear  of 
immediate  pursuit,  of  capture — though,  like  the 
sword  of  Damocles,  this  danger  still  hung  over  their 
heads. 

Snake-like  the  trail  crawled  along,  then  debouched 
upon  a  plateau  that  crested  in  a  long  ridge  before 
slipping  into  the  valley.  Better  time  was  again 
possible,  and  the  Texans  in  their  eagerness  pushed 
on  at  full  speed.  Misgivings  and  doubts  disap- 
peared with  their  progress  as  night  birds  vanish  with 
the  approach  of  dawn. 

The  blood  sang  in  Daubigney's  veins. 

The  morning  broke,  roseate  with  mellow  tints; 
long  lines  of  amber  and  streaks  of  pink  and  gray 
shone  in  the  east ;  then,  like  a  blaze  of  glory,  the  sun 
sprang  high  in  the  heavens.  Dabney  dashed  on,  his 
brows  knit,  his  teeth  compressed,  and  close  in  his 
wake  followed  Jack,  bright  and  irrepressible  as 
usual. 

"Look  at  Dar-rbeny,"  he  mumbled  to  himself," 
he's  th'  verry  picthure  of  mis'ry — an'  awll  fer  a 
woman.  It's  of  hersilf  he's  athinkin'  an'  it  kapes 
him  fr'm  feelin'  cheer-rful,  so  no  swatehear-rt  fer 
rnesilf,  says  Oi,  fer  Patr-rick  Jack  wud  r-ruther  have 
a  flea  in  his  shir-rt  than  a  woman  in  his  mind;  an' 
if  yer  can  kape  famales  out  of  yer  mind,  they  can 


250  The  Grito 

nivver  hop  into  yer  hear-rt;  shure,  an'  that's 
sthraight." 

The  Rangers  were  now  emerging  from  a  narrow 
defile,  and  an  abrupt  turn  brought  them  face  to  face 
with  two  men  whose  proximity  had  been  sheltered 
by  a  precipitous  cliff.  Men,  though,  such  as  these, 
inspired  in  the  Texans'  hearts  no  fear,  for  they  were 
friars — harmless  mendicants,  old  and  travel-stained, 
probably  journeying  to  Monterey  to  take  the  Blessed 
Sacrament  with  their  brothers  of  the  order  of  St. 
Francis.  But  neither  their  age  nor  their  cloth  saved 
them,  for  escaping  prisoners  cannot  parley  with 
politeness  when  opportunity  beckons  the  way.  In 
less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell,  these  holy  men  had  the 
chance  offered  them  to  practice  that  divine  rule 
which  is  the  hardest,  the  severest  test  of  obedience, 
"Doing  unto  others  as  you  would  they  should  do 
unto  you."  The  requirement  in  this  case  was  sim- 
ple, involving  only  the  inconvenience  of  a  change  of 
toilet;  and  the  friars,  though  at  heart  rebellious, 
meekly  acquiesced  to  wills  stronger  than  their  own. 
The  Rangers  thus  became  friars  and  the  churchmen 
heretic  gringos. 

The  Irishman,  watching  the  Spaniards  dressing 
themselves  in  his  and  Dabney's  much-worn  frontier 
suits,  could  not  suppress  a  laugh  and  could  not  resist 
a  jest. 

"Faith,  ye  little  suspict'd  when  ye  set  out  on  this 
joorney  that  ye  wud  mate  a  mir-racle  face  to  face, 
that  ye  wud  start  out  a  monk  an'  end  up  a  monkey; 
but  Oi  mesilf  am  no  ither  than  Patr-rick,  an'  loike 
me  illusthr-rous  namesake,  th'  blessed  Saint,  Oi  hev 
th'  power  of  changin*  a  Mexican  sarpint  fr'm  a 


The  Search  251 

pizenous  reptile  into  lookin'  loike  a  dacent  gentle- 
ma-an,  begor-rah!" 

Then  turning  to  the  Virginian,  he  added : 

"Now,  Fr-ray  Dar-rbeny,  come  on ;  Oi  mesilf  fale 
loike  Brother  Jackass  wid  these  petticoats  danglin' 
r-round  me  shanks." 

And  so  saying,  he  swung  himself  into  the  saddle. 
The  horses  were  now  allowed  a  more  leisurely  pace 
than  had:  hitherto  marked  their  journey,  for  the 
probability  of  their  recapture  had  dwindled  into  a 
vague  speculation.  Friars  were  plentiful  in  Mexico, 
and  so  they  excited  no  suspicion,  for  Charles  Dabney 
spoke  Mexican  like  a  native,  and  the  cowl  pulled 
over  his  forehead  shielded  not  only  his  gray-blue 
eyes,  but  completely  hid  the  gold  light  in  his  hair. 
The  country  was  also  infested  by  brigands,  and  so 
the  Rangers  little  dreaded  that  their  indignity  to  the 
friars  would  meet  with  any  special  notice  or  inter- 
fere with  their  escape. 

Josefa  was  in  Monterey — and  to  Monterey  Dau- 
bigney  hastened. 

He  threaded  all  the  old  narrow  by-ways,  looking 
for  her  in  vain.  He  lingered  in  the  plaza,  close  by 
the  great  dolphin  fountain,  but  though  many  black 
eyes  peeped  at  him  from  their  rebozas,  none  were 
Josefa's.  He  visited  the  plazuelas,  lovely  in  their 
flowers,  fountains,  and  foliage,  but  no  trace  of  her 
was  to  be  seen.  The  old  marketplace,  with  its 
rabble,  its  leperos,  its  cigarette-smoking  mozos,  also 
became  familiar  to  him.  There  he  watched  every- 
thing, from  the  ox  teams  and  small  Spanish  mules 
standing  by,  to  the  poorest  beggars,  imploring  in 


252  The  Grito 

piteous  tones  for  the  gift  of  a  peseta.  But  in  all  the 
moving  multitude  of  queer  costumes,  of  water- 
carriers  and  vendors  of  dukes  and  tortillas,  and 
natives  picturesque  in  scrape,  in  none  of  the  swarthy, 
straight-haired  throng  was  Josefa.  The  Virginian 
paced  the  drives  frequented  by  the  rich,  the  aristoc- 
racy; finally  his  beat  included  all  of  Monterey,  and 
he  was  as  regular  at  his  duty  as  the  old  serenos,  the 
night  watchmen. 

Finding  her  began  to  seem,  however,  a  futile 
undertaking.  No  trace,  no  clue  had  he  yet  discov- 
ered, and  Daubigney,  knowing  the  success  of  his 
ever  doing  so  depended  on  the  secrecy  of  his  quest, 
dared  not  ask  any  one  questions,  though  the  silence 
was  intolerable.  He  prayed  for  inspiration  to  aid 
him  in  ferreting  out  her  lodgings. 

Day  after  day  he  sought  her,  and  night  after  night 
he  dreamed  that  he  found  her — and  yet  it  seemed  a 
dream  likely  never  to  be  realized,  never  to  be  verified. 
Then  his  dumb  sorrow,  his  passion,  his  disappoint- 
ment, like  leeches,  began  to  bleed  his  belief  in 
Josefa' s  constancy,  making  his  temples  throb  with 
anguish  as  doubts  sucked  out  his  heart's  blood.  The 
words  of  Castrillo,  that  he  had  put  from  him  as 
flagrant  falsehood,  now  flayed  his  breast  with  ques- 
tioning. Had  Josefa,  after  all,  forsaken  him? 
Had  she  accepted  his  great  devotion  to  cast  it  aside 
as  worthless?  Had  she  shattered  his  trust  and  her 
promises?  Was  it  her  purpose  to  marry  the  Span- 
iard? Daubigney's  thoughts  could  not  go  beyond 
this  without  experiencing  the  tortures  of  hell.  He 
could  not  contain  himself.  He  could  not  remain 
quiescent,  passive;  his  temperament  demanded  ac- 


The  Search  253 

tion,  action,  action.  But  jealousy  could  not  corrode 
affection  such  as  the  Virginian's  for  Josefa — his 
misgivings  were  momentary,  fleeting;  his  fidelity 
steadfast,  eternal. 

Hope,  like  a  will-o-the-wisp  dancing  in  the  mist 
of  memory,  beckoned  him  to  keep  on  trying,  to  per- 
severe^ never  to  relinquish — and  so  Daubigney  went 
forth  to  search  anew ;  though  he  felt  that  Monterey 
had  become  the  mirage  of  his  heart's  desire,  his 
longings. 

The  sun,  like  a  ball  of  fire,  lit  up  the  horizon, 
melting  the  broken  mountain  outline  into  a  sky  of 
molten  copper,  as  Charles  Dabney,  with  heavy  tread, 
retraced  his  way  from  the  ojo  de  agua,  the  great 
spring,  with  its  crystal  waters  bubbling  from  a  nest 
of  white  pebbles,  a  spot  picturesque  in  beauty,  and 
ever  a  favorite  gathering  place  for  women — but  his 
Josefa,  his  Evangeline,  was  not  among  them.  The 
Virginian  plodded  slowly  on,  passing  the  Barracks 
of  the  Alameda.  Failure,  despondency  clogged  his 
movements,  and  the  heaviness  that  was  in  his  heart 
made  the  heaviness  that  was  in  his  step,  for  melan- 
choly had  weighted,  crushed  out  all  alacrity. 

Like  a  blind  man  he  followed  the  road  by  the 
Bishop's  Palace,  until  it  merged  into  the  street 
where,  nearby,  rises  the  Convent  of  the  Capuchinas. 

The  evening  was  still ;  the  tranquillity,  the  repose, 
the  peace  of  the  night  seemed  hovering  over  Mon- 
terey, and  on  this  breathless  hush,  this  calm,  there 
floated,  like  the  warble  of  a  weary  bird,  a  hymn,  the 
words  of  which  were  lost  before  reaching  the  Vir- 
ginian's ear.  But  the  tune  in  its  pathos  and  misery 
was  in  unison  with  his  feelings  and  touched  him 


254  The  Grito 

deeply,  so  that  he  followed  the  sound,  faint  though 
it  was,  so  faint  indeed  that  had  not  his  ears  been 
acutely  strung  by  watchfulness  he  would  scarcely 
have  heard  it  at  all.  Silver  clear  the  notes  now 
came  to  him,  stirring  his  soul  with  a  rapturous  thrill, 
making  his  heart  keep  time  with  every  cadence  of 
the  singer's  voice,  for  Carlos  Daubigney  had  recog- 
nized it  as  the  voice  of  Josefa. 

The  lover  was  held  spell-bound  neath  the  window 
whence  the  sound  emanated.  There  he  stood,  lean- 
ing against  a  great  pecan  that  grew  so  close  to  the 
convent  wall  that,  had  not  the  holy  sisters  grown  to 
love  it  and  begged  for  its  existence,  the  tree  would 
long  since  have  been  cut  away.  Enraptured,  Dau- 
bigney listened : 

"'Ave  Maria — Maiden  mild, 

Ah  listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer; 
Tis  thou  can  hear  though  from  the  wild, 

Tis  thou  can  save  amid  despair ; 
Safe  may  we  sleep  until  the  morrow, 

Though  banished,  outcast  and  reviled, 
O    Maiden,  see  a  maiden's  sorrow; 

O  Mother,  hear  a  supplicant  child !' " 

The  Virginian  had  often  heard  Father  Clement 
and  Josefa  sing  it  together.  The  words  were 
familiar  to  him,  and  so  in  his  full-volumed,  rich  bass 
he  joined  in : 

"  'Ave  Maria — Sancta  Maria — Sane t a  Maria!'" 

Josefa  instantly  stopped — listened — she  had  heard, 
but  had  she  heard  aright,  or  was  it  the  trick  of 
imagination,  of  fancy? 


The  Search  255 

It  seemed  a  harmony  from  heaven,  melodious  as 
the  seraph's  song;  and  yet,  ringing  in  the  senorita's 
ears,  like  the  peal  of  some  mighty  orchestra,  was  the 
dirge,  "Love —  Renunciation —  Love  —  RENUNCIA- 
TION— RENUNCIATION/'  drowning  all  hope  with  its 
discord. 

Josefa  had  wept  for  Daubigney  until  her  tears 
were  dry ;  she  had  lamented  him  until  there  were  no 
words  to  express  her  grief,  and  instead  of  the  orange 
blossoms  she  had  craved  as  Carlos's  bride,  was  the 
crown  of  thorns  that  her  promise  to  Castrillo  pressed 
to  her  brow.  Never  was  woman  more  utterly,  more 
totally  miserable  than  she,  for  those  who  love  most, 
endure  most,  suffer  most — and  so  it  was  with  her. 
The  girl's  thin  little  hand  went  to  her  head  to  still 
its  throbbing  as  she  listened  again — yes,  it  was  the 
music  of  her  beloved's  voice,  Daubigney's  voice, 
singing  the  Ave  Maria.  Josefa  leaned  far  out  of  the 
window,  scanning  the  deserted  street.  Not  a  soul 
seemed  astir,  save  a  Mexican,  dressed  as  the  average 
citizen  of  Monterey  dresses,  in  a  close-fitting  jacket, 
pantaloons  of  a  dark  color  ornamented  with  steel 
buttons,  and  a  loose  scarf.  He  was  moving  quietly 
on  toward  the  Bishop's  Palace,  and  though  an  em- 
broidered sombrero  rested  jauntily  on  his  black  head, 
there  was  little  else  about  him  suggestive  of  a  trou- 
badour; besides,  he  was  small,  a  mere  dwarf  com- 
pared with  Daubigney.  The  dumb  cry  of  disappoint- 
ment welled  in  her  heart  like  a  foamless  wave  on  the 
deep  sea  of  her  loneliness.  But  as  her  head  dropped 
in  sorrow  her  gaze  fell  on  a  most  surprising  sight, 
for  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  pecan  stood  a  friar 
apparently  kissing  his  hand  to  her.  Josefa  could 


256  The  Grito 

not  believe  her  eyes — and  yet,  there  he  was,  throw- 
ing a  beso  soplado  at  her,  kissing  all  the  finger-tips 
of  his  right  hand  and  blowing  them  in  the  air, 
straight  toward  her  casement.  Then  the  truth 
flashed  upon  her,  and  a  laugh  clear  as  a  bell  sounded 
on  the  twilight's  stillness  as  she  saw  the  friar's  face, 
for  Daubigney  had  pushed  the  cowl  back  from  his 
forehead,  so  that  the  last  rays  of  the  fading  sun 
touched  his  hair  as  with  a  caress,  showing  therein 
the  threads  of  gold.  In  the  amber  of  the  eventide 
Josefa  saw  him — saw  him  more  manly  in  mien; 
more  heroic  in  beauty ;  more  like  a  sculptured  god — 
the  Apollo  Belvedere — than  he  had  ever  seemed  be- 
fore. It  was  rapture  exquisite!  joy  inconceivable! 
bliss  divine!  With  face  flushed  and  radiant,  and 
with  voice  a-tremor,  she  cried: 

"Carlos,  Carlos,  my  Carlos !" 

Then,  so  tense  was  her  excitement,  words  failed 
her,  for  breathing  became  a  difficulty,  an  effort; 
but  at  last  she  gasped: 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  how  came  you  here  ?" 

With  Daubigney,  too,  the  delirium  of  joy  was  al- 
most overpowering;  but  with  the  strength  of  a 
strong  man  he  mastered  himself,  and  motioned  her 
to  be  still.  In  the  language  of  signs,  he  bade  her 
stay  where  she  was,  to  watch  and  wait  until  he 
could  return  and  rescue  her.  Then,  with  the  energy 
of  a  great  hope  long  deferred,  but  now  a  blessed 
assurance,  the  Virginian  turned,  and  with  rapid 
strides  made  his  way  to  where  he  knew  Patrick  Jack 
would  be  awaiting  him.  Josefa  watched  him  witli 
curious,  speculative,  longing  eyes  until  he  disap- 
peared from  view;  then  she  bowed  her  head  and 


The  Search  257 

prayed  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  his  plan  might 
prove  successful,  that  he  might  grasp  her  from  Cas- 
trillo's  clutch.  Her  confidence  in  Daubigney  made 
her  sanguine  that  all  would  now  end  right;  and, 
girl-like,  the  romance  of  the  situation  began  to  ap- 
peal to  her,  as  with  nerves  a-tingle  and  throbbing 
heart  she  eagerly  awaited  the  return  of  her  lover. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  friars  hove  in  sight. 

With  an  Irishman's  readiness,  Jack's  intuition  had 
quickly  seized  on  the  details  of  a  scheme  that  he  be- 
lieved would  work  well,  and  in  the  sleeve  of  his  cas- 
sock rested  a  suspicious  bundle.  Darkness,  also,  like 
an  accomplished  operator,  had  come  to  their  assist- 
ance ;  and  so  when  the  vesper  bells  were  ringing,  and 
the  nuns  had  repaired  to  the  chapel,  and  the  convent 
was  deserted,  Daubigney  climbed  the  great  pecan 
tree  and  lifted  Josefa  from  her  window,  with  all  the 
joyful  eagerness  of  a  boy  robbing  a  bird's  nest.  He 
had  felt  the  agony  of  loss — and  now  he  experienced 
the  ecstasy  of  possession.  Josefa's  arms  were 
clasped  about  his  neck,  and  in  that  perfect  bliss — all 
the  privations,  all  the  horrors,  all  the  misery  of  the 
past  were  forgotten. 

When  they  safely  reached  the  ground,  Patrick 
bowed  with  great  dignity — a  dignity  well  befitting 
his  cloth,  as  he  said : 

"Here  Oi  be  waitin',  a  dacint  praste,  awll  ready 
to  offer  me  sarvices ;  awll  ready  to  tie  th'  knot  wid 
th'  cerimony;  an'  th'  sole  pay  Oi  be  askin'  fer  me 
throuble  will  be  a  kiss  fr'm  th'  br-ride,  begorrah !" 

Daubigney  smiled,  and  the  Irishman,  with  a  grin, 
continued : 


258  The  Grito 

"Now,  little  gal,  yer  swatehear-rt  an'  mesilf  be 
two  dacent  fr-riars ;  an'  't  wuddent  help  th'  good  rep- 
ertation  we  ar-re  winnin'  fer  th'  monasthir-ry  of 
Saint  Fr-rancis  to  have  a  pur-rty  miss  loike  yersilf 
along  in  our-r  compiny.  There  is  nawthin'  fer  ye 
to  do  but  gine  th'  rijimint;  fer  fr'm  toime  imme- 
moryal  Oi  hev  hear-r  say,  'Whin  in  Gr-reece  be 
gr-reasy,'  an'  so  says  Oi,  'Whin  in  Mexico,  do  as 
th'  damndest  Spanyar-rds.'  Tis  a  land  flowin'  wid 
hypocrates  an'  scoundhrels,  as  plentiful  as  frijoles 
an'  fr-riars — an'  they  is  all  mixted  togither  in  a  verry 
divvel's  br-roth.  So,  me  darlint,  take  th'  advice  of 
a  Oir-rishma-an,  plain,  common  sinse  tho'  it  be,  an' 
mesilf  that's  spakin'  it;  don't  nivver  be  a  bell- 
wether-r,  fer  'tis  to  be  lonesome;  but  go  wid  th' 
cr-rowd  ivry  toime,  an'  thin  if  th'  er  dhrinks,  'tis 
others  sets  'em  up.  Now  Oi  hev  br-rought  yer  th' 
togs  that  will  make  iven  a  reptile  leopar-rd  change 
his  whiskers. 

Jack  then  undid  the  bundle  that  all  this  time  he 
had  kept  close  in  his  arm,  and  it  was  with  no  small  de- 
gree of  pride  that  a  monk's  garb  was  displayed. 

"Now  hur-ry,  me  darlint,"  he  cautioned;  "don't, 
for  th'  love  of  Gawd,  be  wastin'  pr-recious  minyits 
puttin'  'em  on;  fer  th'  is  no  nade  to  pr-rimp,  seein' 
yer  hev  caught  yer  swatehear-rt  shure,  loike  a  floi  in 
molasses." 

Then  with  a  gesture  that  held  within  it  a  world 
of  explanation,  Jack  turned  to  Dabney,  adding : 

'Twas  only  this  marnin'  Oi  help'd  mesilf  to  'em ; 
fer  Oi  says,  says  Oi,  'Wan  nivver  can  tell  what  a 
day  may  br-ring  upon  yer  head  till  th'  noight  foinds 
yer  cowld.'  An'  whin  Oi  larn'd  yer  plan  to  riscue 


The  Search  259 

th'  darlint  Oi  says  to  me  conscience,  yer  naden't  con- 
fiss  to  th'  praste  yer  st'alin',  fer  th'  necissity  av  th' 
case  will  gin  yer  absolutun;  fer  Oi'm  not  a  thafe, 
Dar-rbeny,  but  a  pr-rovident  ma-an,  a  ma-an  wid  an 
insoight,  wid  a  oye  always  r-ready  fer  th'  fhutur-re. 
Besoides,  shure  th'  people  will  'xpict  yer  to  clothe 
yer  woife  annyhow  whin  yer  have  mar-ried  her ;  but 
so  long  as  th'  cirimony,  much  less  th'  banns,  hevn't 
been  publish'd,  Pat  can  show  her  th'  cour-rtisy  av 
supplyin'  her  wid  a  dhress;  fer  it's  me  privilige  as 
th'  best  frind  av  her  swatehear-rt — it's  yesilf  Oi'm 
meanin'." 

Then,  calling  to  Josef  a,  he  added: 

"Faith,  ye  must  hurry,  me  honey,  fer  it's  fer  git- 
tin'  away  entoirely  that  Oi'm  afther,  fer  th'  will 
loikely  be  a  purshuit,  tho'  Oi  don't  mane  ter 
froighten  th'  darlint." 

It  was  thus  that  as  the  night  wore  on  and  a  lurid 
moon  stole  out  from  the  foggy  sky,  three  friars 
turned  their  backs  on  the  old  city  of  Monterey, 
bound  for  Texas. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  SERPENT   AND  THE   CHARMER. 

When  the  bugle-call  echoes  through  the  land, 
great  actions,  momentous  movements  crowd  upon 
each  other's  heels,  so  that  the  event  of  yesterday 
becomes  the  forecast  of  the  morrow. 

One  more  deal  in  the  game  he  was  playing  so 
successfully — thought  Santa  Anna  to  himself — and 
the  stakes  would  all  be  his.  And  so  it  was  in  his 
chastisement  of  the  rebel  Texans  he  forgot  that  the 
last  deal  is  the  decisive  one — he  forgot  everything 
in  his  eagerness,  his  overweening  vanity,  his  confi- 
dence in  himself — yes,  he  even  forgot  his  general- 
ship. 

Cautiously  and  subtly  Sam  Houston  fell  back  be- 
fore him,  his  retreat  covering  the  flight  of  hundreds 
of  helpless  American  women  and  children.  But 
when  the  army  of  Texas  went  into  camp  near  the 
mouth  of  the  San  Jacinto  River  the  gravest  doubts 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  such  a  move  pervaded  the  breast 
of  his  soldiers.  The  charmer,  though,  had  never 
charmed  the  serpent  so  wisely ;  for  Santa  Anna,  be- 
lieving the  Texans  caught,  followed  close  upon  their 
tracks,  little  suspecting  that  his  so  doing  had  been 
anticipated  with  the  keenest  desire  by  the  strategist 
Houston,  whose  three  years  spent  among  the  Chero- 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  261 

kees  had  acquainted  him  with  a  cunning  capable  of 
coping  with  even  the  Dictator  of  Mexico. 

Santa  Anna  had  been  cautioned  by  his  generals 
to  be  alert,  vigilant,  wary.  Castrillo  had  made  bold 
to  tell  him : 

"Sir,  you  little  know  these  Texans  yet!  They 
may  be  betrayed  into  capitulation  or  overwhelmed 
by  numbers;  but  mark  my  words,  when  we  meet 
them  in  open  field,  unless  your  force  is  well  sup- 
ported, you  must  need  look  to  your  bay  leaves."  , 

But  the  warning  fell  on  deaf  ears ;  the  tyrant  had 
become  venturesome,  careless.  Leaving  the  main 
division  of  his  army  on  the  Brazos,  Santa  Anna 
pursued  Sam  Houston,  believing  he  had  him  now 
entrapped. 

The  San  Jacinto  low-lands  are  lavishly,  gorge- 
ously adorned  by  Nature.  The  breezes  from  the 
Gulf  mingle  the  invigorating  smell  of  salt  air  with 
the  breath  of  myriads  of  flowers  strewing  the 
prairie.  The  camp-ground  seemed  like  a  summer- 
garden  ;  with  a  perfume  honeyed,  saccharine,  mellif- 
erous— such  as  paradise  might  have  exhaled. 

Blending  with  the  murmur  of  wave  and  the  sigh 
of  the  wind  was  the  cry  of  the  water- fowl;  for 
ducks,  coots,  and  pelicans  dotted  the  lagoon,  while 
from  the  wealth  of  nearby  rushes  hurtled  the  flam- 
ing flamingo. 

The  site,  though,  was  surely  a  strange  one  to 
select  for  a  battlefield,  one  fraught  with  every  nat- 
ural disadvantage;  but  necessity  made  it  exigent, 
for  Houston's  only  hope  lay  in  striking  the  enemy 
a  blow  at  an  unexpected  moment,  in  an  unexpected 
place.  The  barriers  hedging  in  the  contending 


262  The  Grito 

armies  were  the  long  edge  of  timber  skirting  the 
coast,  the  blue  sheet  of  the  San  Jacinto  Bay,  and 
the  turbid  waters  of  the  Buffalo  Bayou  rolling  on  to 
the  Galveston  Gulf. 

"Boys,"  said  Sam  Houston  to  his  men,  "before 
many  hours  we'll  have  one  of  the  bloodiest  fights 
ever  fought ;  and  my  plan  is  to  have  the  bridge  over 
the  Bayou  burnt,  so  as  to  impede  the  advance  of 
Mexican  reinforcements  and  cut  off  all  chance  of 
escape.  We  are  willing  to  fight  to  the  finish,  and 
the  sanctity  of  our  cause  will  give  us  the  victory. 
Now  who  can  be  trusted  to  burn  the  bridge?" 

All  eyes  instantly  turned  to  Deaf  Smith,  who 
proved  always  worthy  of  difficult  undertakings. 
The  soldiers  had  not  forgotten  his  shrewdness  as  a 
spy — his  cool-headed  secretiveness  that  ever  won 
success. 

The  Indian-hunter,  usually  taciturn  from  having 
spent  his  life  mostly  in  the  great  silence  of  Nature's 
heart,  now  chuckled  at  this  commission,  saying  to 
himself : 

"Yip,  the  snake's  got  to  be  scotch'd,  so  ole  Hous' 
can  kill  him!" 

"You  better  not  go  alone,"  cautioned  Houston, 
"for  the  Mexicans  might  cut  you  off  so  you  would 
never  reach  it,  and  that  bridge  has  got  to  be  burnt 
if  it  takes  my  whole  army  to  do  it.  Take  some  of 
the  boys  with  you." 

So  as  aids,  Smith  carefully  selected  a  party  of 
frontier  friends,  and  together  they  set  out  on  this 
hazardous  enterprise.  No  wonder  Houston  felt  anx- 
ious in  detailing  these  men  for  this  service,  for  that 
bridge  spanned  more  than  a  mere  bayou,  it  con- 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  263 

nected  Texas'  liberty  with  Mexico's  tyranny.  It 
held  evenly  balanced  freedom  and  peonage,  and  on 
Deaf  Smith's  shoulders  rested  the  responsibility  of 
turning  the  scale  for  success  or  failure. 

Watching  the  men  preparing  to  start,  Henry 
Karnes  said : 

"Better  hurry,  'fore  Santy  Anny  'spects  this  here's 
gwine  ter  prove  a  trap;  'cause  varmints  like  him  is 
natur'ly  s'picious ;  and  I  hopes  not  only  ter  ketch  him 
but  ter  soak  my  knife  in  his  jugular  or  skin  him 
like  a  skunk.  When  ye  gits  back  none  of  ye  mouths 
shall  be  a-waterin'  fer  a  chaw  of  'bacco  from  my 
twist;  but  mind  ye — bait  the  trap  well!" 

In  the  course  of  several  hours  Deaf  Smith  re- 
turned, with  the  joyful  news  that  his  flint  had  fired 
the  bridge. 

"But  that  ain't  all,"  he  laughed ;  "we  done  ketch'd 
some  game  a-ready — curious  lookin'  critters  they  be. 
At  first  we  thought  they  was  Mexican  pole-cats, 
jedgin'  by  thar  looks;  but  they's  jist  plain  tame 
home-cats,  and  good  mousers,  too."  He  threw  back 
his  head  in  a  loud  guffaw,  and,  pointing  toward 
the  bayou,  said,  "Thar  they  be  now,  will  you  please 
to  look." 

"Lord  bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  Karnes,  "if  they 
ain't  friars.  Go  fetch  th'  ole  Priest,  fer  surely  this 
army  ain't  a  lackin'  fer  chaplains." 

The  surprise,  the  delight,  the  pathos  that  fol- 
lowed had  best  be  left  to  the  imagination,  for  it  was 
too  sacred  for  words  to  describe — this  meeting  of 
Father  Clement  with  Josefa  and  Daubigney;  and 
Jack  was  there  also,  his  eyes  glistening  with  sym- 


264  The  Grito 

pathetic  tears  as  he  witnessed  this  affecting  scene. 
The  Priest's  old  face  shone  with  a  heavenly  glow  as 
in  scriptural  language  he  framed  his  welcome : 

"My  children,"  said  he,  "that  were  lost,  are  found. 
God  has  been  merciful  in  permitting  my  eyes  to  see 
them  again,  well  and  alive — for  I  was  bereaved,  be- 
reaved!" 

Father  Clement  wept  aloud — tears  of  joy,  tears 
of  relief;  and  Josefa,  burying  her  head  on  his  breast, 
clung  to  him,  mingling  her  thankfulness  with  his,  in 
that  demonstrative  effusiveness  characteristic  of 
Latin  blood.  The  Virginian,  though  thoroughly  in 
sympathy  with  their  feelings,  was  not,  however,  of 
the  same  temperament ;  and  so  he  sought  to  hide  the 
fulness  of  his  heart  by  turning  the  tide  of  emotion 
into  the  channel  of  mirth. 

"Monsieur  le  cure"  he  said,  "I  had  never  expected 
to  have  found  you  here,  in  an  army  of  English- 
speaking  soldiers — you,  once  as  faithful  as  a  member 
of  the  Old  Guard  to  the  memory  of  Napoleon. 
While  I  have  turned  friar,  you,  it  seems,  have  turned 
traitor." 

"Nay,  nay,  mon  gargon,"  replied  the  old  French- 
man, shrugging  his  shoulders  and  spreading  out  his 
hands  in  a  manner  that  was  characteristic  of  him; 
"you  are  a  fakir,  not  a  friar,  mon  cher  Daubigney ; 
while  I — am  still  all  that  I  ever  claimed  to  be,  a 
poor  Jesuit,  trying  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  a 
Master  Who  was  not  above  companying  sometimes 
with  publicans  and  sinners."  And  in  the  Priest's 
eye  there  now  shone  an  expression  that  the  Virgin- 
ian loved  to  see  there,  because  in  bygone  days  it  had 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  265 

been  so  familiar — that  magnetic  twinkle  speaking 
so  silently  of  keen  appreciation  of  jest. 

Josefa  was  still  fondling  her  godfather,  caressing 
his  thin  cheeks  and  stroking  the  silvered  locks  on 
his  tonsured  head,  while  with  rapt  attention  he  list- 
ened to  Dabney's  account  of  their  journey,  their 
hardships,  their  persecutions. 

"Truly,"  said  Father  Clement,  "life  is  a  tangled 
skein;  death  only  unravels  its  mystery.  Why  these 
things  happen ;  why  they  are  allowed,  in  God's  own 
good  time  we  shall  know;  for  the  Great  Example 
shows  humanity  made  perfect  by  suffering,  and 
then— glorified !" 

"But  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
excitement  of  two  fresh  captives  being  brought  into 
camp. 

"Full-blood'd  pumpkin-face  spalpheens  this  toime 
an  no  misthake,"  observed  Patrick  Jack;  adding: 
"Shure  an'  begorrah!  an'  wan  av  'em  is  a-howlin' 
loike  a  Banshee,  which  wud  not  be  more  thin  yer 
wud  expict,  seein'  th'  creathure  is  a  famale  woman 
wid  her  lungs  still  free  to  use  as  she  plases,  anny- 
how!" 

Josef  a' s  swift  glance  instantly  recognized  her — 
she  was  Nina.  The  other  prisoner  was  a  man  near 
thirty  years  old.  When  these  Mexicans  were 
searched  nothing  of  importance  could  be  found  on 
their  persons,  but  Deaf  Smith  was  of  the  firm  con- 
viction that  they  were  couriers  to  Santa  Anna. 

"  'Tain't  no  time,"  said  he,  "to  let  them  slip  by 
like  hounds  on  a  trail,  for  if  thar's  a  scent  of  danger 
in  the  air  they've  got  to  out  with  it — and  that  in  a 
hurry."  And  taking  a  lariat,  Smith  made  a  noose 


266  The  Grito 

and  threw  it  over  the  Greaser's  head  with  as  much 
ease  as  a  vaquero  would  have  lassoed  a  steer.  The 
other  end  of  the  rope  was  made  fast  to  the  upper 
limb  of  a  salt-cedar,  while  the  prisoner  howled, 
cursed,  and  prayed. 

"Now,"  commanded  the  Indian-hunter,  speaking 
in  Mexican,  "tell  the  whole  truth;  don't  bolt  from 
the  track;  'cause  if  you  do  I  will  give  your  mule  a 
cut  and  then  you  can  call  on  the  buzzards  to  take 
you  down." 

Desperate,  the  man  heard,  and  as  he  looked 
around  him  realized  his  life  was  not  worth  a  peso, 
and  so  he  pointed  to  his  sombrero  that  had  been 
knocked  to  the  ground.  Careful  examination  found 
concealed  in  the  heavy  silver  coil  band  a  dispatch 
that  told  Houston  what  he  had  not  previously  known 
as  a  certainty — that  Santa  Anna  was  with  the  ad- 
vance guard  of  his  army,  and  that  he  was  only  sup- 
ported by  his  brother-in-law,  General  Cos. 

The  knowledge  that  General  Urrea's  division  was 
not  with  Santa  Anna  came  also  in  a  curious  way. 
For  the  woman  Nina,  seeing  the  measure  that  was 
being  meted  to  her  companion,  and  fearing  the  Tex- 
ans  would  do  her  bodily  injury,  quickly  produced 
from  a  secret  pocket  a  letter  that  Ramon  Urrea  had 
intrusted  her  to  deliver  to  Castrillo.  After  giving 
some  details  of  his  campaign,  it  closed  thus : 

"And  now,  my  dear  Juan,  if  on  the  very  verge 
of  battle  your  ear  still  itches  with  anxiety  for  news 
of  Josefa,  know  that  my  earnest  sympathy  makes 
me  place  Nina  at  your  service,  for  she  will,  of  all 
people,  be  most  likely  to  find  the  runaway.  Take 
heart  and  comfort  yourself  with  the  hope  that  all 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  267 

may  yet  end  well.  Tis  the  old  adage  verified,  The 
course  of  true  love  never  runs  smooth/  So  with 
kindest  felicitations,  believe  me, 

"Your  friend  in  peace  and  in  arms, 


Daubigney's  steel-blue  eyes  glittered  when  they 
fell  upon  those  lines,  and  a  scowl  darkened  his  brow 
as  between  clenched  teeth  he  muttered  : 

"Castrillo  is  here  with  Santa  Anna  —  for  his  sake 
I  hope  I  may  kill  him  in  battle  ;  for  kill  him  I  surely 
will,  and  he  deserves  a  dog's  death  rather  than  a 
soldier's." 

Faint  though  these  words  were,  the  fervency  of 
his  speech  brought  their  meaning  to  Josefa's  ears, 
arousing  the  Indian  strain  that  usually  was  latent  in 
her  blood.  Her  eyes  were  wild  and  wide  as  she 
clutched  her  bosom  and  prayed  like  an  Aztec 
priestess  : 

"O  Madre  de  Dios,  grant  that  Castrillo  may  fall 
like  his  forefathers,  the  Spaniards,  did  on  the  cause- 
way of  Anahuac,  in  that  sad  night  when  oppression 
first  sought  to  seize  this  fair,  this  beautiful  country." 

Sam  Houston,  now  knowing  the  strength  of  the 
enemy,  determined  to  forthwith  commence  the  at- 
tack. He  did  not  miscalculate  the  disparity  still  in 
numbers  between  the  Texans  and  Santa  Anna's 
army,  but  he  knew  the  mettle  of  his  men.  Plain 
backwoodsmen  and  frontiersmen  though  most  of 
them  were,  armed  with  naught  but  rifles  and  bowie- 
knives,  they  surpassed  in  valor  the  trained  minions 
of  tyranny. 


268  The  Grito 

The  topography  of  the  San  Jacinto  prairie  made 
it  possible  for  the  Texans  to  form  into  line  unob- 
served by  the  enemy.  They  were  drawn  up  to  pre- 
sent as  much  face  as  possible,  each  column  being  de- 
ployed so  as  not  to  be  outflanked  by  the  Mexicans. 
General  Houston  was  busy  riding  up  and  down  the 
lines,  surveying  his  troops.  His  face  glowed;  the 
glare  of  defiance  lit  up  his  countenance ;  his  appear- 
ance was  commanding,  imperious — like  a  veritable 
king  of  battle.  He  believed  the  hour  of  destiny 
had  struck.  Addressing  his  soldiers,  he  said : 

"You  have  been  eager  to  fight.  The  time  has 
now  come;  and  with  the  battle-cry,  'Remember  the 
Alamo !  Remember  Goliad  I'  I  am  ready  to  lead  you 
to  the  victory  that  will  establish  the  Independence 
of  Texas!" 

The  eyes  of  all  who  heard  him  flashed,  the  look 
of  vengeance  settled  on  their  faces,  their  blood 
turned  to  gall.  A  fife  struck  up,  "Will  you  come  to 
the  bower  I  have  shaded  for  you — Will  you  come? 
Will  you  come?"  Curious  tune  that  for  such  an 
occasion,  but  the  Texans  did  not  need  the  stimulus 
of  martial  music,  for  resolutely  the  line  had  broken 
into  a  double-quick.  As  they  neared  the  Mexican 
camp,  their  swiftness  seemed  renewed.  Charles  Dab- 
ney,  gripping  his  rifle  tightly,  broke  into  a  run  and  led 
the  charge,  shouting  the  slogan,  the  death-dealing 
cry: —  "Remember  the  Alamo!  Remember  Goliad!" 

The  army  of  Santa  Anna,  fagged  out  by  its  long 
march,  having  thrown  up  breastworks  of  pack-sad- 
dles and  baggage-sacks,  was  quietly  resting — en- 
joying an  afternoon  nap,  a  siesta,  for  the  hour  was 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  269 

near  three  o'clock,  and  the  sun  shone  on  the  prairie 
with  enervating  splendor. 

The  Texans  came  upon  them  like  a  thunderbolt 
from  heaven;  the  game  was  caught  in  its  lair. 
There  was  a  crashing  volley;  an  impetuous  rush; 
rifles  clicked  again  in  a  deafening  din;  then  a  mad 
struggle,  a  grapple,  a  butchery.  The  San  Jacinto 
field  was  a  human  whirlpool,  for  never  did  braver 
hearts  or  stouter  hands  contend  for  liberty.  Deaf 
Smith,  having  ventured  too  near  the  enemy's  line, 
by  the  stumbling  of  his  horse  was  thrown  in  their 
very  midst.  A  Mexican  started  to  run  him  through 
with  his  sabre.  Smith  drew  his  pistol,  and,  missing 
fire,  quickly  threw  it  at  the  Greaser's  head  and  hit 
him.  The  man  staggered  back,  and  instantly  the 
Indian-hunter  snatched  his  blade  and  began  to  mow 
down  his  assailants. 

There  is  little  to  tell  of  the  Battle  of  San  Jacinto. 
It  was  wisely  timed  and  the  work  of  a  moment,  for 
soon  the  Mexicans,  demoralized,  broken,  routed, 
sought  safety  in  flight.  The  Texans,  following 
close  on  their  heels,  seemed  like  avenging  angels 
pursuing  them.  The  marsh  rang  with  echo  of  car- 
bine and  slashing  of  sabre — but  the  Mexicans  heard 
only  the  blood-curdling  yell,  "Remember  the  Alamo ! 
Remember  Goliad !" 

The  battle-cry  was  an  elixir  to  the  courage  of 
the  Texans,  reviving  as  it  did  the  memory  of  the 
brave  and  daring,  who  had  not  only  been  butchered 
but  burned ;  so  that  patriotism  and  revenge  cut  down 
the  enemy  like  a  two-edged  sword — the  tall,  oozy, 
down-trodden  grass  soaked  up  their  blood. 


270  The  Grito 

*  Wherever  the  Mexicans  turned  to  flee  they  found 
the  Texans  close  on  their  tracks.  Wrestling,  fall- 
ing, panting,  dying,  the  Greasers — with  the  white 
fear  of  death  in  their  faces — pleaded  for  mercy: 
"Me  no  Alamo!  Me  no  Goliad!"  they  would  cry 
out — but  it  was  to  no  avail ;  and  they  died  with  the 
lie  in  their  throats,  for  the  avengers  of  Travis, 
Bowie,  Bonham,  and  Crockett  steeled  their  hearts 
against  pity.  Vengeance  was  let  loose  and  the  San 
Jacinto  field  had  become  the  shambles. 

The  waves  of  the  turbid  Bayou  and  the  enemy's 
wrath  confronted  the  remnant  of  Santa  Anna's 
force.  Finding  the  bridge  burnt,  into  the  stream 
they  plunged,  for  the  chance  of  escaping  a, 
watery  grave  was  preferable  to  the  possibil- 
ity of  evading  the  avengers  of  Fannin's  gar- 
rison. The  Bayou  literally  ran  with  blood, 
yet  on  the  Texans  fought  until  Houston  com- 
manded them  to  stop  the  carnage,  for  the  Battle  of 
San  Jacinto  was  won. 

It  was  a  victory  that  achieved  the  Independence  of 
Texas  and  unfurled  the  banner  of  the  Lone  Star  to 
recognition  by  the  world. 

When  twilight  settled  down  nearly  all  the  Mexi- 
cans had  been  killed  or  captured.  General  Castrillo 
and  Colonel  Almonte  were  among  the  prisoners,  but 
no  one  knew  what  had  become  of  Santa  Anna. 
Mounted  on  a  fine  black  charger,  the  Dictator,  with 
the  usual  cowardice  of  a  tyrant,  was  the  first  to 
flee.  Seeing  him,  Henry  Karnes  gave  hot  chase, 
not  recognizing  who  it  was,  but  simply  guessing  by 
his  glittering  uniform  that  he  was  an  officer  of  high 
rank.  An  Americano,  who  was  afoot,  yelled  to  the 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  271 

trapper  the  fugitive's  name,  and  Karnes  dug  deep 
his  rowels  in  his  horse's  flanks  as  he  strained  every 
muscle  to  catch  him. 

The  pursuit  led  straight  toward  the  Bayou,  and 
the  trapper,  rejoicing  that  Deaf  Smith  had  burned 
the  bridge,  felt  confident  of  capturing  him  there, 
for  the  river  ran  broad,  and  deep,  and  swift.  The 
Mexican  rode  with  the  speed  of  Mercury,  and  close 
on  his  tracks,  with  the  bounds  of  a  bloodhound, 
came  the  Texan's  pony.  When  the  water  was  reached 
Karnes  saw  horse  and  rider  halt  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  making  a  tremendous  lunge,  disappear.  The 
next  minute,  arriving  upon  the  scene,  the  trapper 
found  the  noble  animal  floundering  desperately  to 
reach  the  opposite  bank,  making  the  water  rings 
spread  in  great  circles — but  the  rider  was  nowhere 
in  sight.  Had  he  been  caught  by  an  undercurrent 
and  hurled  out  of  view?  Had  the  waves  sheltered 
him  in  their  mercy — him  who  was  ever  merciless? 
The  fate  of  Santa  Anna  was  hence  a  mystery. 

"He  is  drowned,  he  is  bound  to  be  drowned!" 
declared  many  of  the  Texans. 

"Shure,  an'  'tis  that  mesilf  am  belavin'.  Th' 
shar-rk  is  dhrown'd  daid  by  his  guilt;  that's  what 
he  is  fer  a  fact,"  affirmed  Jack,  and  turning  to 
Karnes,  added: 

"Begorrah!  an'  it's  a  good  r-riddince  av  sich  a 
pizenous  ad-der-r  that  he's  no  longer  on  th'  airth, 
goin'  to  an'  fr-ro  loike  th'  Divvil  of  ould!" 

"Some  snakes  can  live  monstrous  well  in  water," 
affirmed  the  trapper,  who  with  a  shake  of  his  head 
and  disappointment  in  his  voice  continued:  "An* 
to  think  I  might  have  kotched  him — but  'twas  a 


272  The  Grito 

miss  that  was  wuss  than  a  mile;  howsomever,  I 
hope  to  git  him  yit,  for  Henry  Karnes  won't  believe 
Santy  Anny  is  dead  and  done  for,  no,  not  till  he  sees 
every  bone  in  his  skeleton." 

That  night,  like  dandelions  peeping  forth  in 
spring,  the  stars  came  out  in  the  heavens ;  but  the 
excitement  of  the  day  had  been  too  great  for  sleep 
to  lull  the  participants  into  rest.  The  victors  were 
jubilant.  The  vanquished  morose. 

To  celebrate  the  victory  of  San  Jacinto  the  Army 
of  Texas  made  huge  bonfires.  First  one  gleamed 
out,  then  another,  with  a  flickering  light  that  threw 
fantastic  shadows;  so  that  the  soldiers  looked  like 
goblins,  singing,  dancing,  shouting,  and  huzzaing. 
Each  man  felt  himself  a  hero. 

It  was  a  curious  sight  to  see  these  half-famished 
Texans  helping  themselves  to  every  luxury  from 
the  spoils  of  the  Mexican  camp.  Houston  looked 
with  lenient  eye  upon  their  harmless  merriment, 
for  they  decorated  not  only  themselves  with  their 
captives'  possessions  of  knives,  sabres,  and  pistols, 
but  also  their  horses  with  the  golden  epaulettes  and 
cap-cords  of  the  enemy.  The  contents  of  Santa 
Anna's  military  money-chest  being  divided,  each 
soldier  received  seven  dollars — which  was  every 
penny  ever  paid  to  Sam  Houston's  brave  men.  But 
what  cared  they  for  money?  Independence  was  far 
more  precious. 

When  Charles  Dabney  received  his  portion,  ac- 
cepting it,  he  said : 

"I  shall  keep  this  as  a  souvenir  of  one  of  the 
world's  decisive  battles,  for  such  in  truth  is  San 
Jacinto !"  adding  as  he  turned  away : 


The  Serpent  and  the  Charmer  273 

"For  the  independence  of  Texas  will  keep  Des- 
potism from  ever  treading  beyond  the  Rio  Grande; 
and  also  heralds  the  awakening  of  all  this  great, 
rich  country,  westward  to  the  Pacific,  from  the  leth- 
argy of  Spanish  sleep !" 

And  his  words  were  the  words  of  a  seer. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   THORN   IN   THE   FLESH- 

The  day  following  the  battle  the  earth  seemed 
wrapped  in  peace.  The  breezes  from  the  sea  blew 
over  the  marshlands;  the  sun,  peeping  forth  with  a 
rosy  blush,  lifted  the  veil  of  mist  hanging  low  over 
the  Bayou;  and  the  morning  shone  transplendent 
with  brightness,  radiant  with  beauty. 

Charles  Dabney  was  early  abroad,  looking  after 
the  comfort  of  his  horse.  She  was  a  fine  animal 
and  had  proven  capable  of  great  endurance.  In 
Dabney's  composition  lurked  that  element  making 
him  appreciative  of  a  spirited  steed — of  good  horse- 
flesh, which  judgment  was  doubtless  traceable  from 
son  to  sire  back  to  those  who  in  halcyon,  colonial 
days  had  made  racing  the  gentry's  ideal  sport  in 
the  Old  Dominion. 

With  Patrick  Jack  and  two  other  Texans  the 
Virginian  now  rode  on  to  the  Bayou  to  water  his 
horse.  Reaching  the  lagoon,  the  men  pushed  out 
into  mid-stream,  for  their  horses  refused  to  drink 
the  blood-stained  water  near  the  shore.  Not  far 
from  where  they  stood  the  everglades  were  seen 
to  move,  which  attracted  the  soldiers'  attention,  for 
the  air  hung  motionless  with  that  sultry  calm  that 
comes  when  the  sun  soaks  up  the  dew.  Watching 


The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh  275 

the  rushes  closely,  a  head  was  spied  peeping  out 
above  the  morass. 

"Faith !  shure  an'  it  looks  loike  a  mud-tur-rtle,  a 
skill-pot,  more  than  it  does  a  land  tar-rapin !"  com- 
mented the  Irishman,  adding:  "But  Oi  'xpict  its 
nawthin'  but  a  damn  Greaser  afther  awll." 

"Yip,"  agreed  one  of  the  frontiersmen,  "and  I'll 
mighty  soon  finish  him."  And  his  rifle  went  up  to 
his  shoulder. 

"Don't  shoot,"  a  voice  remonstrated,  "we've  al- 
ready killed  enough  of  'em — six  hundred  or  more; 
so  let's  take  him  alive  up  to  the  bull-pen." 

Suiting  his  acts  to  his  words,  this  Texan  rode 
over  to  where  the  Mexican  was  standing  knee-deep 
in  water,  and,  pointing  his  pistol  in  his  face,  com- 
manded him  to  surrender  and  jump  up  in  front. 

"No,"  interposed  Dabney,  "let  me  take  him  along; 
for  my  mare  is  larger  than  your  cayuse,  and  in  the 
habit  of  carrying  double."  And  the  Virginian's 
thoughts,  like  electricity,  flashed  back  to  how  Josefa 
had  been  brought  from  Monterey. 

The  Mexican,  though,  had  already  mounted.  A 
dejected,  miserable-looking  wretch  he  was,  whose 
mean  eye,  thick,  bestial  lips  and  crafty  expression 
might  have  made  any  one  man  think  twice  before 
giving  him  a  lift  on  a  journey ;  and  the  Texan  was 
right  in  putting  him  in  front,  where  he  could  be 
watched,  for  besides  his  scoundrelly  appearance,  on 
general  principles  every  Greaser  is  too  ready  with 
his  knife  to  ride  in  the  rear. 

Reaching  the  rope-bound  corral  where  the  seven 
hundred  prisoners  were  confined,  the  new  captive, 
with  scant  ceremony,  was  dumped  in  among  them. 


276  The  Grito 

In  the  fraction  of  an  instant  the  cry:  "El  Presi- 
dente!  El  Presidente!"  rent  the  air — along  with 
the  throat-splitting  cheer. 

"Vive  la  Santa  Anna!  VIVE  L'  S-A-N-T-A-N- 
N-A!" 

For  the  soldiers  of  Mexico  immediately  recognized 
the  mud-bespattered  sinner  as  their  god,  despite  his 
disguise  of  a  common  blouse  jacket,  white  draggled 
trousers,  and  red  worsted  slippers,  the  last  having 
been  donned  for  the  siesta  that  was  interrupted  by 
the  Battle  of  San  Jacinto — the  evening  snooze  when 
Santa  Anna's  dream  of  the  Texans  trembling  at  his 
power  had  been  shattered  by  a  Marco  Bozzaris  in 
the  person  of  Sam  Houston. 

Hearing  the  prisoners'  exuberance,  the  Americans 
did  not  at  first  understand  them,  for  their  gibberish 
was  so  quick  that  their  multitudinous  voices  made 
a  jargon  that  carried  more  of  sound  than  of  articu- 
late meaning. 

When  the  truth  became  known  a  number  of  Tex- 
ans leaped  within  the  bull-pen,  and  the  fate  of  Santa 
Anna  would  have  been  sealed  at  once  had  not  the 
uproar  of  the  prisoners  awakened  Houston.  Call- 
ing to  the  Texans,  he  shouted: 

"Don't  kill  him,  boys;  don't  kill  him!  He  is 
worth  a  thousand  other  prisoners !" 

The  camp-ground  was  now  a  bedlam.  The 
Texans,  crowding  around  to  see  Santa  Anna,  were 
loud  in  expressing  their  opinion  as  to  the  meas- 
ure to  be  meted  to  the  tyrant,  for  well  they  remem- 
bered his  policy  to  American  prisoners ;  and  so  angry 
mutterings  and  bitter  curses  filled  the  air.  Then 
followed  a  most  trying  ordeal  for  Charles  Dabney, 


The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh  277 

as  General  Houston  bade  him  summon  Juan  Cas- 
trillo  to  act  as  interpreter  for  Santa  Anna.  So, 
though  the  Army  of  Texas  had  consummated  a  vic- 
tory, there  waged  still  in  the  Virginian's  heart  a 
conflict  older  than  the  strife  of  nations — the  strug- 
gle of  passion. 

The  letter  from  Urrea  to  Castrillo,  intercepted 
from  Nina,  lay  in  the  Virginian's  breast-pocket,  and 
seemed  to  challenge  a  vendetta,  for  it  revealed  clearly 
that  the  idea  of  marrying  Josefa  to  the  Spaniard 
had  not  been  abolished.  The  very  sight  of  Castrillo 
was  intolerable  to  Dabney.  It  was  hard  for  him 
to  remember  that  this  man — his  enemy  who  had 
wantonly  heaped  insults  upon  him  at  Salado;  who 
had  abducted  his  sweetheart  and  by  cruel  threats 
striven  to  force  her  into  accepting  his  love ;  who  had 
proven  the  bane  of  Josefa's  existence  and  brought 
manifold  sorrows  to  her,  to  Father  Clement,  and 
to  himself — that  this  man,  this  villain,  was  now  the 
under  dog,  virtually  helpless. 

When  Dabney  told  Castrillo  that  he  was  wanted 
by  General  Santa  Anna,  the  Spaniard  glared  at  him 
with  a  scowl  that  would  have  annihilated  if  a  mur- 
derous look  could  kill,  then  his  face  mottled  with 
anger  as  he  arose  to  obey;  but  such  was  his  rage  that 
he  fell  in  a  fit — and  thus  it  was  that  Colonel  Almonte 
acted  as  interpreter  at  that  memorable  interview. 
For  an  hour  or  more  the  commanders-in-chief 
talked;  and  the  Virginian,  standing  by,  heard,  and 
then  with  long  strides  he  hastened  to  seek  Josefa 
and  Father  Clement  to  tell  them  all — all  about 
Santa  Anna,  and  all  about  that  thorn  in  the  flesh — 
Castrillo. 


278  The  Grito 

The  day,  still  young,  retained  much  of  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  early  morn.  Away  stretched  the  prairie, 
wide  miles  of  tender  marsh-like  green,  sprinkled  with 
the  red  of  geranium,  begonias,  and  poppies,  the 
aroma  from  which,  blending  with  the  sweet  smell  of 
grasses,  came  in  long  whiffs,  making  the  air  heavy 
scented,  balmy,  ambrosial. 

The  senorita  was  seated  in  her  tent  door  picking 
the  petals  from  a  wild  rose,  while  listening  to  the 
melody  of  a  blue-bird  that,  perched  on  a  nearby 
laurel  limb,  sang  as  if  his  little  heart  were  bursting 
with  the  perfect  gladsomeness  of  spring.  The  radi- 
ance in  Josefa's  big  black  eyes  reflected  the  same  joy 
as  she  noted  Daubigney  approaching. 

The  Priest  had  already  heard  the  news  that  Santa 
Anna  was  captured,  and  the  old  martial  spirit  that 
was  within  his  breast  stirred  in  anticipation  of  the 
details. 

Dropping  on  the  sward  close  by  Josefa's  skirt, 
the  Virginian  whittled  a  stick  as  he  talked.  Father 
Clement  listened,  rapt  and  absorbed,  and  so  did  the 
girl,  breathless  and  intent.  With  hands  clasped 
loosely  over  her  knees  she  rocked  her  body  to  and 
fro,  vibrant  with  interest.  Many  was  the  admiring 
glance  that  her  lover  stole  in  her  direction,  noting 
how  beautiful  was  her  face,  how  symmetrical  her 
figure,  how  graceful  her  pose.  Then,  though  he 
answered  Father  Clement's  questioning,  his  thoughts 
as  on  a  pivot  revolved  around  Castrillo;  and  Dau- 
bigney's  determination  to  ever  shield  Josefa  from 
such  a  scoundrel  grew  more  resolute. 

"My  suspicions  were  first  aroused,"  Dabney  was 
saying,  "by  the  prisoner's  fine  linen  shirt  and  dia- 


The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh  279 

mond  studs,  for  no  common  Greaser  would  have 
worn  either;  so  just  as  soon  as  the  Mexicans  began 
their  howling  when  he  was  dumped  into  the  corral, 
I  knew  he  was  Santa  Anna." 

"Did  the  Dictator  appear  frightened?"  asked  the 
Priest,  eager  for  every  detail. 

"You  bet  he  did!  His  dignity  was  crumpled  to 
nothing,  and  his  whole  manner  was  that  of  a  slink- 
ing, whipped  hound.  His  skin  even  lost  its  swarthi- 
ness  and  turned  gray,  real  ashen  in  his  fear.  A 
body  to  have  seen  him  would  have  thought  that  he 
was  suffering  the  agonies  of  the  damned,  or  holding 
a  review  of  the  ghosts  of  the  Alamo.  Well,  just 
cause  he  had  for  his  fright!  for  we  Texans  would 
have  torn  him  to  pieces,  limb  by  limb,  but  for  Gen- 
eral Houston." 

The  curl  of  Dabney's  clean-shaven  lip  emphasized 
the  disgust  in  his  tone  as  he  continued : 

"General  Houston's  wounded  ankle  kept  him  from 
rising  to  meet  Santa  Anna,  but  otherwise  he  was 
treated  with  all  possible  courtesy.  Those  who  saw 
Sam  Houston  then  will  never  forget  him,  lying  there 
under  a  big  live  oak,  his  head  pillowed  on  his  war 
saddle- — the  picture  of  dignity  and  manliness ;  while 
Santa  Anna's  appearance  was  such  a  contrast.  He 
cried  like  a  baby,  yes,  wept  aloud ;  for  the  boys  gath- 
ered close  around  him,  and  no  interpreter  was  needed 
to  tell  what  was  passing  in  their  minds.  If  we  could 
have  had  our  way  we  would  have  held  a  drum-head 
court  martial  and  shot  him  on  the  spot,  for  he  is  a 
wholesale  murderer,  a  butcher,  and  entitled  to  no 
consideration  as  a  prisoner-of-war." 


280  The  Grito 

"O  Carlos!"  shudderingly  exclaimed  Josefa;  but 
Daubigney  did  not  notice  the  interruption,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"The  snake  became  calmer  though,  and  insuffer- 
ably arrogant  after  swallowing  some  opium.  I  don't 
see  how  Houston  stood  him;  his  eyes  did  flash  fire 
when  Almonte  interpreted  what  Santa  Anna  had 
said." 

"Were  you  near  enough  to  hear?"  asked  the 
Priest. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  rigmarole  about  Houston's  being 
born  to  no  ordinary  destiny,  as  he  had  conquered 
the  Napoleon  of  the  West." 

"Impossible!"  exclaimed  Father  Clement  almost 
angrily,  and  the  greatest  smirk  of  contempt  that 
Dabney  had  ever  seen  there  now  shone  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  Frenchman's  mouth  as  he  added : 

"Bah!  the  fiend!  Lucifer  never  fell  so  low  as 
Napoleon  would  feel,  could  he  hear  the  comparison. 
Such  arrogance!  Such  impertinence  passes  all  be- 
lief !  Santa  Anna  is  insane,  he  is  mad ;  'tis  the  rav- 
ings of  lunacy,  nothing  less,  mon  ami;  but  go  on, 
tell  me  more!" 

"I  think,"  the  Virginian  continued,  "that  the 
course  Houston  purposes  pursuing,  in  retaining  San- 
ta Anna  as  a  hostage,  for  a  while,  at  least,  is,  to  put 
it  mildly,  a  very  humane  one.  It  demands  the  re- 
spect of  the  world — this  clemency  to  one  who  has 
waged  a  war  of  extermination,  showing  no  mercy 
to  man,  woman  or  child ;  but  whether  it  is  politic  is 
more  than  I  can  say,  more  than  any  of  us  can  vouch- 
safe, for  Santa  Anna  is  a  wolf  with  the  cunning  of  a 
fox." 


The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh  281 

"Indeed  he  is !"  agreed  Father  Clement ;  adding : 
"And  as  full  of  deceit  as  a  sleeping  snake  is  of  folds. 
The  Mexicans  now  worship  him;  he  is  their  idol,  a 
demi-god ;  but  in  time — that  great  righter  of  wrongs 
— they  will  see  that  his  feet  are  of  clay.  His  capri- 
cious tyranny  will  fall  unmasked,  and  if  he  does  not 
lose  his  head  as  despots  generally  do,  his  old  age  will 
end  in  loneliness,  disgrace  and  dejection." 

The  Priest' s  voice  was  sad,  prophetic,  like  one 
whose  knowledge  of  human  nature — with  its  fickle- 
ness for  fraud  and  loyalty  to  right — was  beyond 
dispute;  and  in  after  years,  when  his  words  were 
verified,  Dabney  and  Josefa  often  referred  to  it  in 
the  light  of  a  revelation. 

The  old  Frenchman  was  still  speaking,  in  a  mono- 
tone soft  and  low,  as  if  he  were  not  conscious  that 
any  one  listened ;  it  was  a  way  he  had  of  commun- 
ing with  his  thoughts: 

"But  General  Houston's  treatment  of  him  was 
grand,  was  noble!  To  preserve  not  only  his  life, 
but  to  allow  Santa  Anna's  return  to  Mexico,  the 
land  that  he  loves,  that  is  dear  to  him !" 

A  sigh  as  of  homesickness  escaped  Father  Clem- 
ent as  he  resumed : 

"Since  I  have  become  an  old  man  my  feelings 
have  changed,  my  prejudices  are  dropping  off,  my 
enmity  is  threadbare — but  I  do  not  miss  them,  for 
my  lease  of  three  score  years  and  ten  is  well  nigh 
out,  and  soon  I  shall  quit  this  poor  tenement  of 
clay,  this  earthly  habitation,  for  a  better  mansion,  a 
heavenly  home,  I  trust ;  but  Time,  though,  has  not 
blotted  from  my  memory  the  rage,  the  scorn,  the 


282  The  Grito 

contempt  I  felt  toward  the  English  when  they 
ished  our  loved  Napoleon!" 

Then  seeming  to  remember  Daubigney's  presence, 
he  laughed  a  little  as  he  added : 

"The  Americans,  though,  are  not  like  the  Eng- 
lish— not  exactly,  at  least;  the  soil  over  here  has 
developed  them,  made  them  broader,  more  liberal, 
my  son." 

"But  what  will  become  of  Uncle  Ramon  and  Gen- 
eral Castrillo?"  prompted  Josefa,  timidly  though 
anxiously. 

"The  armistice  stipulates  that  all  Mexican  forces 
are  to  be  withdrawn  from  Texas  soil ;  so  that  means 
your  Uncle  Ramon  will  cross  the  Rio  Grande  with 
trailing  banners." 

"But  Castrillo — what  of  him?"  faltered  the  senor- 
ita. 

"General  Houston  will  retain  only  such  captives 
as  shall  insure  the  exchange  of  our  prisoners.  He 
deems  it  wise  for  the  exact  whereabouts  of  the  Dic- 
tator to  be  kept  secret,  though  there's  a  whisper 
that  his  highness  will  be  taken  to  Galveston.  As 
for  the  others,  like  Castrillo,  they  will  be  sent  to 
San  Antonio  and  confined  in  the  Alamo  until  all 
our  men  are  returned,  then  they  will  be  liberated — 
and  the  war  declared  at  an  end." 

"God  grant  it !"  exclaimed  the  Priest  with  fervent 
solemnity. 

"Castrillo  to  San  Antonio !"  repeated  Josefa,  shak- 
ing her  head — "Castrillo  to  San  Antonio!  Like  a 
dark  shadow  he  follows  me  always — everywhere." 


The  Thorn  in  the  Flesh  283 

"But,  little  girl,  he  is  a  shadow  that  need  not 
frighten  you  now,"  assured  Daubigney,  "for  I  shall 
be  by  to  shield  and  protect  you." 

"And  to  love  me,"  supplemented  she,  as  with  a 
child's  simplicity  she  raised  her  ruby  lips  for  him 
to  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   LADY  OF   HER  DREAMS 

It  was  a  strange  home-going — the  return  of 
Father  Clement,  Josefa  and  Daubigney  to  San  An- 
tonio. 

"After  experiences  such  as  ours,"  said  the  Priest, 
"we  will  find  it  hard  to  take  up  our  lives  where  we 
left  off,  for  threads  have  been  broken  and  rents 
made;  but  despite  rough  places  we  must  go  on." 

In  the  adobe  formerly  occupied  by  Don  Ramon, 
on  the  Plaza  de  las  Islas,  the  wanderers  domiciled 
themselves;  for  since  Strife  had  crossed  his  own 
threshold,  the  Jesuit  never  again  set  foot  over  the 
sill,  so  that  the  House  of  the  Priest  remained  ten- 
antless,  save  that  occasionally  a  bat  flew  in  at  the 
window,  or  a  lizard,  lured  by  the  sunshine,  crawled 
forth  to  bask  on  the  parapeted  roof. 

Josefa  pondered  the  changes  that  were  taking 
place  with  sad  eyes,  for  the  vanquished  belonged 
to  her  own  race;  but  with  Father  Clement  it  was 
different.  He  was  a  man  with  stronger  heart- 
strings, besides  he  had  seen  many  revolutions  and 
much  bloodshed  in  his  day,  and  so  with  a  soldier's 
resignation  accepted  the  inevitable.  But  it  was  with 
deep  appreciation  that  he  noted  how  the  war  had 
developed  Daubigney,  for  the  life  of  large  endeavor 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  285 

and  active  responsibility  had  done  much  for  the  Vir- 
ginian, strengthening  his  character  and  broadening 
his  heart.  He  was  such  a  man  as  the  Priest,  of  all 
the  men  he  had  ever  known,  would  most  willingly 
intrust  with  Josefa's  happiness;  and  so  with  pa- 
rental solicitude  he  longed  to  see  them  made  man 
and  wife  while  he  was  alive  to  give  them  his 
blessing. 

But  ere  this  could  happen  a  serious  illness  befell 
Daubigney  that  nipped  all  their  plans.  The  long 
exposures  and  hardships  of  camp-life,  particularly  his 
Mier  experience,  together  with  his  anxiety  for  Jo- 
sefa's welfare,  had  sapped  his  strength,  so  that  his 
constitution  did  not  resist  that  insidious  foe — ma- 
laria— lurking  in  the  San  Jacinto  marsh ;  and  hardly 
had  San  Antonio  been  reached  before  fever  over- 
took him,  the  terrible  break-bone  dengue,  so  dreaded 
by  all  Texans. 

The  disease  made  rapid  progress  and  Dabney 
soon  lapsed  into  a  state  of  torpor.  His  eyes  were 
dilated,  immovable,  showing  no  sign  of  reason,  fixed 
as  they  were  in  vacancy,  while  nervous  tremors 
shook  his  frame  as  he  tossed  in  delirium.  Josefa 
assisted  the  Priest  in  nursing  him  tenderly,  and 
although  the  Virginian  continued  too  ill  to  recognize 
aught  about  him,  his  low  sighs  seemed  to  indicate 
that  he  appreciated  their  loving  care. 

One  morning  as  the  sefiorita  sat  by  his  bedside, 
turning  to  the  Priest,  she  said: 

"Padre,  I  had  a  queer  dream  last  night,  that  trou- 
bled my  sleeping  moments,  so  that  I  feel  as  weary 
as  if  my  rest  had  been  foregone;  and  now,  though 
I  am  here  with  you  and  Carlos,  yet  fear  lingers  with 


286  The  Grito 

me — a  curious,  doubting  fear,  impossible  to  de- 
scribe." 

"Josefa,  my  child,"  spoke  the  Priest,  "life  as  it 
comes  usually  brings  with  it  a  bountiful  supply  of 
sorrow,  so  try  not  to  conjure  up  the  imaginary 
wherewith  to  make  thyself  miserable." 

"But,  Father  Clement,  from  your  own  lips  I  have 
the  story  of  a  king  who  was  troubled  by  a  dream — 
a  dream  having  a  meaning.  I  wish  you  could  read 
mine  so  as  to  prepare  me  for  the  future." 

"Your  poor  old  godfather  would  not  lift  the  veil 
of  the  future  even  if  he  could,  which  he  cannot,  for 
our  Heavenly  Father  sees  fit  to  show  us  day  by  day 
life's  pathway,  otherwise  we  would  not  have  the 
strength  to  journey  onward.  So  do  not  seek  to 
know  what  Providence  has  in  store  for  you,  my 
little  one,  my  chiquita." 

"But,  Padre,  'twas  such  a  strange  dream.  It 
seemed  I  found  a  heart — a  lovely  heart,  and  that  the 
heart  was  his."  She  nodded  toward  the  bed. 
"While  trying  to  open  the  heart  a  horrible  ogre 
whispered  in  my  ear,  'Josefa,  turn  the  heart  so  the 
light  shines  upon  it  and  thou  wilt  not  wish  to  enter/ 
Obeying  the  ogre,  I  saw  within  the  heart  of  Carlos 
a  face  such  as  I  had  never  seen  before.  I  should 
know  that  face  were  we  to  meet  again.  So  beauti- 
ful were  the  features,  at  first  I  thought  it  was  the 
picture  of  Our  Lady ;  but  there  was  no  light  behind 
her  head,  though  there  were  flowers  in  her  hair." 

"Dreams,"  said  the  Priest,  "are  generally  to  be 
interpreted  contrariwise.  As  for  the  image  in  Dau- 
bigney's  heart,  if  it  were  not  the  Holy  Mother,  per- 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  287 

haps  it  was  the  next  best  friend  God  gives  those  born 
in  sin — a  mother." 

Josefa  shook  her  head  dubiously. 

"I  do  not  believe  it  was  Carlos's  mother — she  was 
so  beautiful!" 

"Which  is  not  conclusive  reasoning,  my  child, 
for  thy  mother  was  also  beautiful/'  laughed  the 
Priest,  purposely  misconstruing  the  senorita's  mean- 
ing, as  he  added  while  playfully  patting  her  cheek : 

"If  you  will  think  of  the  story  I  told  you,  the 
ruler,  you  remember,  had  to  resort  to  a  young  man, 
an  alien,  to  interpret  his  dream — for  the  wise  and 
aged  could  not  divine  its  meaning;  and  so  I  recom- 
mend an  exile,  a  Virginian,  as  one  who  can  best 
allay  thy  fears;  but  go  now,  take  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  and  let  the  wind  blow  all  such  cobwebs  from 
your  fancies." 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  when  an  hour  later  she  re- 
turned her  cheeks  were  aglow  with  the  freshness 
of  exercise.  In  her  hand  she  carried  a  cluster  of 
lilies,  intended  as  a  tribute  to  Daubigney,  albeit  he 
was  too  ill  to  know  it.  Restlessness  and  stupor  had 
given  place  to  languor.  His  lips  were  closed;  his 
eyes  open,  they  met  hers  with  a  sigh  of  content  and 
quickly  closed  again.  Josefa,  with  a  hungry  gnaw- 
ing at  her  heart,  watched  for  some  glimmer  of  hope, 
some  prelude  that  his  memory  was  returning,  and 
that  he  felt  her  presence.  She  seated  herself  on  the 
bedside,  still  holding  the  flowers  in  her  hand. 

They  were  alone  together — Father  Clement  had 
gone  for  some  cool  water  to  moisten  the  cloth  on 
Dabney's  brow. 


288  The  Grito 

Suddenly  the  invalid  began  to  toss — it  seemed  a 
mental,  rather  than  a  physical  paroxysm,  that  per- 
turbed his  spirit.  Was  it  her  nearness  that  had 
power  to  thrill  him  even  on  a  bed  of  pain?  Josefa 
wondered;  but  she  was  soon  to  know.  Dabney 
seemed  conscious  of  himself,  if  not  of  his  surround- 
ings. The  sefiorita's  large  black  eyes  were  fixed 
on  his  face  with  intense  devotion.  She  had  longed 
so  for  this  moment — when  he  would  know  her,  when 
he  would  recognize  her,  not  as  a  nurse,  a  minister- 
ing angel,  but  as  his  sweetheart,  his  love.  The 
parched  lips  parted  as  if  trying  to  speak.  Josefa 
bent  low  her  head  so  that  her  ear  might  catch  his 
faintest  murmur,  while  a  frenzy  of  yearning  seized 
her  soul.  Opening  wide  his  gray-blue  eyes,  the 
delirium  of  fever  was  the  only  light  showing  in 
them  as  the  word  "Angelica,"  like  a  sigh,  escaped 
him. 

The  lilies  dropped  on  the  floor  as  if  they  burned 
the  little  brown  hand  that  held  them,  while  quickly, 
as  if  stung,  Josefa  drew  back — what  did  he  mean? 
Angelica  ? — Angelica  ? — Angelica  ?  Noticing  he 
was  again  trying  to  speak,  the  woman,  half  Span- 
ish and  part  Indian,  bent  nearer  him,  him  whom 
she  loved  with  all  'the  wild  passion  of  her  hybrid 
nature.  "Dear  one!"  he  gasped  in  a  whisper  so 
low  it  was  scarcely  audible ;  but  Josefa  heard.  Her 
eyes  brightened,  a  radiant  smile  overspread  her  rich 
red  lips.  Surely  he  meant  no  other  than  herself; 
perhaps  "Angelica"  was  some  pet  name  coined  es- 
pecially for  her,  just  as  she  called  him  "Carlos." 
The  thought  of  having  misjudged  him  when  he 
was  helpless,  of  having  doubted  him  when  he  was 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  289 

ill,  rushed  over  her  like  a  condemnation  of  un- 
worthiness,  causing  the  tears  to  gush  to  her  eyes. 

Her  heart  was  beating  so  wildly  it  deafened  her, 
and  putting  her  hand  to  her  side  Josefa  pressed  it 
to  still  its  throbbing,  for  a  light  illumined  the  sick 
man's  face  such  as  she  had  never  beheld  there  during 
his  waking  moments.  Dizzily  she  looked — what  was 
it  he  seemed  so  glad  to  see  ?  Could  it  be  a  beatific 
vision  such  as  sometimes  blesses  the  moments  of 
those  passing  from  the  confines  of  the  Present  to 
the  borderland  of  the  Hereafter? 

The  possibility  made  her  gasp!  Was  she  losing 
him,  him  who  was  to  her  so  precious?  Was  he 
slipping  away  from  her  while  the  words  "Dear  one" 
still  lingered  on  his  lips? 

Josefa  grew  sick  at  heart;  the  room  seemed  to 
swim  before  her;  every  object  appeared  dancing 
from  its  accustomed  place.  Was  Carlos's  hand  mov- 
ing with  them?  Surely  it  was  creeping  upward, 
languidly  upward  until  it  reached  his  heart;  while 
the  words  "My  guardian-angel"  sounded  on  the  air. 

To  the  girl's  mind  swiftly  came  the  idea  that  his 
heart  pained  him,  along  with  the  thought  she  should 
rub  it  to  aid  circulation.  That  he  was  dying  Josefa 
did  not  doubt,  but  she  would  not  call  Father  Clem- 
ent— for  alone  to  the  last  the  senorita  wished  to  re- 
main with  her  love.  The  dross  of  human  affection 
corrupted  the  teachings  of  the  Church;  the  pagan 
in  her  nature  prevailed;  she,  she  alone,  the  Vestal 
of  his  heart,  was  all-sufficient;  the  hour  was  too 
sacred ;  the  time  too  holy  to  be  shared  with  any  one 
else.  Bending  low  so  that  her  black  ringlets  fell 
about  him,  Josefa,  starting  to  rub  his  heart,  felt 


290  The  Grito 

something — something  strange  and  hard  that  star- 
tled her. 

What  could  it  be? 

It  felt  like  a  missal.  Its  weight  perhaps  op- 
pressed the  sufferer;  and  so  the  girl  dexterously 
slipped  her  hand  into  Dabney's  shirt-front,  to  the 
little  under-pocket  sewed  there  by  himself.  When 
she  withdrew  it  a  little  brown  leathern  case  was 
within  her  grasp. 

Richly  embossed  with  raised  flowers,  never  be- 
fore had  Josefa  seen  anything  like  it.  She  won- 
dered what  cut  the  ugly  furrow  across  one  side  of 
it,  but  her  wonderment  was  of  short  duration,  for 
in  examining  it  her  hands  touched  a  spring,  causing 
the  case  to  fly  open,  and  Josefa  saw — that  which 
she  had  told  the  Priest  she  would  recognize  again — 
the  lady  of  her  dream. 

Beautiful,  fair,  and  young,  the  pure  girlish  face 
looked  calmly  into  the  burning  orbs  of  the  senorita, 
who  glared  upon  her  with  all  the  jealous  hatred  of 
her  race. 

Every  feature  was  scrutinized — was  she  not  beau- 
tiful? A  sad,  sweet  smile,  betokening  resignation, 
lingered  about  the  mouth;  like  a  nebula  her  hair 
of  fine  spun  gold  clustered  back  from  a  brow  as 
placid  as  an  angel's.  It  was  such  a  face  as  would 
fill  a  heart  and  leave  no  room  for  any  other,  until 
death  should  loose  the  seal  of  earthly  confines,  and 
man  and  woman  soul  united  in  one,  would  go  forth 
to  be  absorbed  in  that  Love  that  is  eternal. 

The  Virginian  was  still  feeling  about  his  left  side 
with  the  instinct  of  a  blind  man.  A  look  of  worried 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  291 

pain,  of  troubled  disappointment  overspread  his 
countenance — but  Josefa  cared  not. 

Her  resolve  was  made — he  should  never  again 
possess  the  picture,  and  so  she  thrust  it  within  her 
bosom;  while  a  bitter,  cutting  laugh  rose  to  her 
lips,  to  be  quickly  smothered  in  the  anguish  of  de- 
spair. All  the  warmth  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of 
her  life;  a  dreadful  emptiness  crept  into  her  heart; 
the  dream,  the  face  that  had  haunted  her — was  now 
a  tangible  reality  to  taunt  her. 

Dabney  was  speaking  again.  English  words  in- 
termingled his  speech;  his  voice,  low  and  thick, 
seemed  failing  him ;  his  sentences  were  broken,  frag- 
mentary— but  Josefa  heard  not.  Numb  and  cold 
she  felt,  despite  the  sunlight  stealing  in  through 
the  doorway.  Her  joys  seemed  vanishing,  every- 
thing seemed  vanishing,  as  with  the  low,  hurt  cry 
of  a  dumb  animal  she  fell  in  a  deep,  dead  faint  on 
the  cot  beside  her  love.  How  long  she  lay  there  or 
what  happened  afterwards  she  never  knew,  for  when 
Josefa  opened  her  eyes  again  Father  Clement  was 
chafing  her  hands. 

"Better  go  back  to  sleep,  my  chiquita,  my  little 
one,"  he  said  kindly. 

"Padre !"  the  word  was  uttered  as  a  sigh — "Pa- 
dre, my  dream  has  come  true." 

"Hast  thou  been  dreaming,  my  child  ?" 

"The  old  dream,  I  mean,  of  which  I  told  you." 

"Why  sayest  thou  that  ?"  the  Priest  asked,  gently 
stroking  her  hair. 

"I  heard  him  call  her  name;  I  saw  the  look  of 
adoration  on  his  face ;  I  heard  him  mutter  'angel/  " 
sobbed  the  girl ;  "and  so  I  know  'tis  true." 


292  The  Grito 

"Not  so  fast,  Josef  a,  dear,"  gently  rebuked  her 
godfather;  "not  so  fast,  ma  chere."  Then  he  paused, 
thinking  what  he  could  best  say  as  comfort;  and 
when  the  silence  was  broken,  it  was  the  voice  of  the 
Jesuit  that  spoke : 

"Is  it  wrong  to  adore  an  angel?"  he  adroitly 
asked. 

"No,"  replied  Josefa,  "if  the  angel  be  in  heaven." 

"Heaven  is  the  abode  of  angels,"  Father  Clement 
staunchly  affirmed. 

"Of  guardian-angels?"  incredulously  the  girl 
queried. 

"Unless  Saint  Peter  in  his  mercy  to  erring  mor- 
tals lets  them  pass  the  pearly  gates." 

"But  what  are  guardian-angels?"  persisted  she. 

"Harmless  creatures,  my  little  one,  like  patron 
saints." 

"But  Carlos  is  a  heretic;  he  does  not  believe  in 
the  saints,"  asserted  the  girl. 

"Be  that  as  it  may,  his  creed  may  substitute  some 
equivalent  for  them;  just  a  distinction  in  words, 
Josefa,  dear,  though  the  meaning  is  about  the  same. 
They  are  quibbles  for  theologians,  which  a  little 
mind  like  yours  had  best  not  worry  over;  for  the 
English  have  a  prejudice  against  some  words  seem- 
ingly very  harmless  to  us." 

Then  softly  imprinting  a  good-night  kiss  on  her 
tear-wet  cheek,  and  bidding  her  try  to  sleep,  Father 
Clement  left  the  room. 

Dabney  needed  him.  The  crisis  of  his  sickness 
had  come.  The  fever  having  broken,  he  was  as  cold 
as  death,  as  weak  as  a  babe.  A  few  hours,  the  Jesuit 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  293 

knew,  would  decide  whether  he  would  recover  or 
whether  earthly  sufferings  would  forever  cease. 

In  the  next  room  the  senorita  lay  awake,  think- 
ing. She  had  never  exactly  understood  the  Ameri- 
cano, though  her  admiration  had  found  with  him  no 
fault;  yet  her  passionate  soul  craved  a  passionate 
adoration,  and  now  she  began  to  feel  that  she  had 
given  more  than  she  had  received. 

Castrillo  had  expressed  his  love  for  her  with  the 
fervor  of  a  Spaniard;  Daubigney's  deep  devotion 
spoke  more  powerfully  than  words,  effusions — but 
the  senorita,  in  her  jealousy,  did  not  weigh  the  dif- 
ference. The  Virginian  had  so  fully  filled  her  re- 
quirements of  a  hero  that  she  had  never  before  ques- 
tioned the  possibility  of  her  not  being,  perhaps,  the 
heroine  of  his  ideals,  the  woman  who  would  be  his 
heart's  desire.  Things  trivial  in  themselves,  which 
had  previously  borne  no  meaning,  now  swelled  in 
her  memory  like  a  foamless  wave  that  rose  and  fell, 
governed  by  an  unseen  force,  but  holding  in  its  ebb 
the  terror  of  deep  water.  Her  thoughts  were  mad- 
dening; and  Josefa  changed,  changed  quickly,  as 
the  climate  of  Texas  changes  from  beauteous,  balmy 
mildness  into  the  fierce,  breezing  norther. 

The  little  rill  of  savage  blood  in  her  veins  had 
swollen  into  a  sweeping  flood,  drowning  the  teach- 
ings of  Father  Clement.  Hopelessness  urged  it  on, 
though  despair,  like  a  whirlpool,  awaited  to  engulf 
her.  The  girl's  eyes  were  dry — her  longing  for  re- 
venge, like  a  simoon,  dried  the  mist  of  tears — for 
Josefa  was  planning,  planning — planning  to  avenge 
herself. 


294  The  Grito 

The  bitterest  humiliation  that  can  flood  a  wo- 
man's soul  overwhelmed  her;  the  consciousness  of 
having  given  her  love  for  naught — to  one  who  did 
not  prize  it  but  already  preferred  another.  She  felt 
she  hated  the  unknown  siren  whose  charm  was  still 
upon  him.  Him  she  despised  for  having  allowed 
another  to  quaff  the  sparklets  and  rich  red  wine  of 
his  heart,  leaving  only  the  dregs  for  her.  And  yet 
the  truth  remained — she  still  loved  him,  and  of  her 
great  love  came  this  great  jealousy.  Splendid  and 
beautiful  he  would  always  seem  in  her  eyes — he  who 
had  awakened  the  heart  of  a  woman  within  her. 
She  understood  now  the  sensations  of  a  traveler 
with  a  parched  tongue  in  a  desert  land.  But  if 
the  spring  of  happiness  were  beyond  her  reach,  then 
she  would  stop  him  before  he  grew  well  and  strong, 
and  went  perhaps  to  enjoy  it  with  that  woman 
whose  picture  he  had  worn  above  his  heart. 

Very  cautiously  Josefa  slipped  from  her  bed,  and 
with  the  noiseless  tread  of  a  ghost  tripped  across  the 
floor  until,  reaching  Dabney's  door,  she  paused  to 
listen  and  to  look. 

The  room  was  filled  with  shadows. 

All  was  still. 

The  sick  man  was  resting  quietly.  The  turning 
point  in  his  illness  having  been  safely  passed,  Father 
Clement,  weary  with  the  night's  vigil  and  anxiety, 
dozed  in  his  chair. 

Creeping  like  a  cat,  with  every  sense  alert,  Jo- 
sefa's  eyes  quickly  spied  the  belt-knife  of  the  Virgin- 
ian. Yes,  it  would  answer  her  purpose;  his  own 
weapon  should  deal  the  blow  that  would  hurt  him, 
even  as  his  words  had  stabbed  her  heart. 


"All  the  savagery  in  her  nature  was  aroused,  nerving  her 
to  do  the  deed." 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  295 

Reaching  the  bed,  she  leaned  over  Carlos,  to  peer 
once  more  into  the  face  she  loved  so  well ;  and  then 
the  recollection  of  the  expression  it  had  worn  when 
the  word  "Angelica"  escaped  his  lips  swept  over 
her,  bringing  with  it  a  torrent  of  hate.  All  the  sav- 
agery latent  in  her  nature  was  aroused,  nerving  her 
to  do  the  deed.  Slowly  she  raised  the  knife,  her  eyes 
glittering  with  a  light  not  sane.  As  she  started  to 
move  her  arm  to  deal  the  death-blow,  a  maddened 
laugh  burst  from  her  lips,  more  jarring  than  the 
scream  of  epilepsy.  With  a  leap  Father  Clement 
seized  the  girl,  knocking  the  knife  from  her  hand, 
and  it  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  clanking  sound. 

"Wouldst  thou  commit  murder!"  he  shrieked. 
"O  Josefa,  my  child,  my  child !  Is  it  for  this  that 
I  have  lived;  for  this  that  Pere  Clement  has  been 
spared;  for  this  he  has  spent  his  life  in  trying  to 
train  thee  in  the  path  thou  shouldst  go?" 

With  a  weak,  uncertain  step  the  girl  tottered,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  the  Priest  closely  folded 
her  in  his  arms,  while  his  tears  dampened  her  hair. 
Josefa  clung  to  him  convulsively,  burying  her  face 
on  his  breast,  sobs  shaking  her  frame — the  terrible, 
heartrending  emotion  of  physical  reaction. 

"Ah,  my  child,"  said  Father  Clement,  "I  have 
never  told  you  before,  but  if  his  guardian-angel  had 
not  turned  the  enemy's  ball,  your  sweetheart's  bones 
would  have  bleached  on  the  plains  of  Goliad." 

Josefa  understood  then  the  torn  side,  the  bullet 
furrow,  on  the  little  leathern  case,  and  felt  in  a  meas- 
ure comforted;  while  tears  of  repentance  mingled 
with  tears  of  joy — that  Daubigney  still  lived,  lived 
for  her  to  still  love  him, 


296  The  Grito 

The  days  that  followed  slipped  by  swiftly. 

Never  was  an  invalid  more  fondly  nursed  than 
he,  never  a  sufferer  who  received  gentler  and  more 
loving  attention.  The  old  days  seemed  indeed  to 
have  returned — the  lotos-eating  days  that  first 
brought  the  Virginian  the  friendship  of  the  Priest 
and  the  love  of  Josefa. 

Dabney  submitted  readily  to  the  Frenchman's  in- 
junction to  remain  quiet  and  eat  little,  for  he  was 
content  with  the  scene  about  him  and  enjoyed  feast- 
ing his  eyes  on  the  loveliness  of  the  senorita.  Her 
face  held  in  it  more  than  the  old  charm  of  bright 
eyes,  perfect  coloring  and  youth.  It  was  mysteri- 
ously changed.  A  brooding  tenderness  seemed  to 
emanate  from  her — for  such  is  the  compassionate 
heart  of  a  woman,  his  feebleness  touched  her  more 
than  ever  had  his  strength.  His  eyes  grew  to  fol- 
low her  about  the  room,  to  watch  her  every  move- 
ment. Josefa' s  slightest  touch  could  soothe  his  ach- 
ing brow  more  quickly  than  the  remedies  suggested 
by  Father  Clement,  who,  though  willing,  being  a 
man,  was  awkward  in  those  little  cares  which  con- 
spire to  the  comfort  of  the  sick  when  whims  and 
caprices  mark  the  mile-stones  to  recovery. 

This  sweet,  placid  contentment — profound,  un- 
broken— would  have  been  an  Eden  to  Josefa  but  for 
the  fruit  of  suspicion  that  grew  out  of  the  daguerre- 
otype. Never  since  that  awful  night  had  the  Priest 
mentioned  it  to  her,  so  that  it  still  remained  a  mys- 
tery, a  subject  rife  for  speculation.  Josefa,  with  a 
vague  superstition,  wondered  sometimes  if  the  pic- 
ture were  some  deity  whom  he  worshipped  instead  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin — if  so,  then  explained  were  all 


The  Lady  of  Her  Dreams  297 

the  hardships  that  Daubigney  had  suffered;  it  was 
his  punishment  for  having  a  strange  goddess,  for 
being  a  heretic.  But  religion  never  yet  stilled  the 
pangs  of  jealousy,  for  as  long  as  the  heart  is  human 
it  does  not  crave  celestial  consolation,  and  religion 
with  passion  is  as  incompatible  as  water  with  oil. 
So  doubts  would  gnaw  at  the  sefiorita's  heart  when- 
ever she  looked  at  the  lovely  face  in  the  case,  the 
little  leathern  case  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  restore.  Sometimes  she  would  catch  Dabney  with 
a  far-away  expression  on  his  face,  for  though  Time 
had  seared  his  remorse,  the  scar  remained — and 
Memory  would  point  to  his  past  with  a  cruel  finger 
and  bid  him  look.  Where  her  lover's  thoughts  were 
at  such  times  worried  Josefa.  Were  they  traveling 
back  to  that  part  of  his  life  of  which  she  knew  not — 
beyond  the  mountains  whence  he  had  come  ? 

One  evening,  seeing  this  mood  strong  upon  him, 
forgetting  her  pride,  she  determined  to  fathom  the 
mystery  of  the  picture,  to  penetrate  his  past. 

"Why  are  you  so  sad,  Carlos  ?"  she  asked.  "One 
would  think  you  had  lost  something." 

Her  voice  startled  him,  breaking  the  chain  of  his 
revery ;  and  unthinkingly  he  replied : 

"I  have." 

"When?"  And  her  heart  stood  still,  for  she 
hoped,  yet  feared,  he  might  mention  the  daguerre- 
otype; but  the  Virginian  was  not  the  man  to  talk 
of  himself,  and  so  sadly  he  answered : 

"Long  years  ago,  it  now  seems,  though  memory 
at  times  makes  it  fresh." 


298  The  Grito 

His  tone  was  misleading,  his  manner  diverted 
suspicion;  and  such  was  her  temperament,  her  sym- 
pathy quivered  like  a  smitten  harp-string. 

"Tell  me,"  she  pleaded. 

"I  cannot,"  he  answered  wearily,  for  his  honesty 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  deceive  her;  but  de- 
tailing to  this  woman,  who  loved  him  passionately, 
the  one  stain  on  his  youth  was  an  intricacy  not  to  be 
thought  of — and  yet  he  felt  it  was  unfair  she  should 
not  know. 

"Was  it  by  death  ?"  prompted  she. 

"A  death  was  the  cause,"  he  explained  truthfully, 
though  his  meaning  was  equivocal. 

Josefa  quickly  arose  and  drew  near  Daubigney. 
Placing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  with  face  pressed 
close  to  his,  so  that  he  could  feel  the  touch  of  her 
hair,  the  warmth  of  her  breath,  she  whispered : 

"Do  not  grieve  over  the  Past,  Carlos.  It  will  not 
bring  it  back.  Josefa  loves  you  so  dearly,  it  pains 
her  to  see  your  sadness."  And  she  gave  him  her 
lips  to  kiss,  her  rich  red  lips  trembling  with  the  ec- 
stasy of  passion — the  overflow  of  her  pure  young 
heart,  a  heart  that  like  a  bird  with  untried  wings 
fluttered  in  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  MYSTERY  EXPLAINED. 

The  cormorant  War  winged  its  way  from  Texas 
when  the  army  of  Santa  Anna,  with  banners  furled, 
crossed  the  Rio  Bravo  del  Norte.  The  seed  of  ani- 
mosity against  the  Americanos,  sown  by  the  enemy, 
however,  soon  sprung  up  among  the  Indians,  and 
changed  the  wake  of  tyranny's  exodus  into  the  war- 
path. 

The  Comanches,  once  indifferently  friendly  to  the 
whites,  stirred  up  by  emissaries  from  Mexico,  had 
now  become  particularly  hostile  and  treacherous. 
Like  Ishmaelites,  their  hand  against  every  man ;  with 
their  wild  friends  the  Lipans,  Kiowas,  and  Apaches, 
they  roamed  the  country  from  the  Llano  Estacado 
to  the  San  Saba  and  Rio  Grande.  From  every  hill 
their  smoke  signals,  those  strange,  inimitable  bea- 
cons of  the  redman,  curled  heavenward  in  a  thin, 
gray,  spiral  line,  spreading  out  at  the  top  like  mush- 
rooms against  the  sapphire  sky. 

Earth  showed  also  terrible  traces  of  their  pres- 
ence, for  their  pony  tracks  and  the  blackened  prairie 
and  smouldering  ruins  of  cabins  silently  spoke  of 
outrage  and  massacre.  Each  frontiersman  brought 
fresh  news  of  crime,  so  that  something  had  to  be 
done  to  preserve  the  settlers,  their  wives  and  chil- 


300  The  Grito 

dren,  from  the  depredations  of  savagery — the  toma- 
hawk, the  scalping-knife,  and  the  torture-stake;  or 
that  worse  fate — the  degradation  and  abasement  of 
adoption  into  their  tribes. 

Wherever  a  group  of  Rangers  met,  their  talk  ran 
on  nothing  else. 

"Yip,"  Deaf  Smith  was  saying,  "Big  Terrapin's 
got  more  scalps  from  burnt  cabins  than  any  other 
red  devil.  Can't  nobody  kill  that  Injun?  I've  shot 
him  myself  many  a-time,  an'  ther  bullets  jist  glance 
off  his  red  belly  like  hail  off  a  house  side.  It's  con- 
jure, an'  that's  what  makes  him  so  powerful  'mong 
other  tribes ;  'tain't  nothin'  short  of  a  charmed  life." 

"I  would  like  to  get  my  hands  on  him,"  spoke  uft 
Big  Foot  Wallace,  who  had  just  returned  from  Mex- 
ican bondage.  "I  bet  I  would  choke  his  gizzard  out 
of  him." 

"P'raps  you  might,  an'  thin  agin,  p'raps  you 
mightn't,"  said  Deaf  Smith;  adding:  "Though 
'tain't  six  in  one  hand  an'  half  dozen  in  t'other — but 
nine  to  one,  'fore  you  knew  he  was  'round  you'd 
hear  th'  twang  of  a  bow  or  th'  whiz  of  a  arrow,  an* 
never  know  'twas  Big  Terrapin  whar  shot  it,  unless 
your  swimming  eyes  open  to  see  him  shakin'  the 
blood  from  your  scalp.  That  Injun  can  blind  his 
trail  so  's  I  can't  keep  up  with  him,  though  'tain't 
many  of  'em  can  fool  me ;  but  when  it  comes  to  Ter- 
rapin, he's  full  of  doubles  as  a  fox." 

"Well,"  interposed  Charles  Dabney,  "it's  all  the 
Mexicans'  doings ;  let  Big  Terrapin  alone  and  he  is 
not  a  bad  Indian." 

Deaf  Smith  closed  one  eye  with  a  squint  that  spoke 
volumes,  as  shaking  his  head  dubiously,  he  said : 


The   Mystery  Explained  301 

"Not  a  bad  Injun,  as  Injun  goes;  but  'tis  as 
nat'r'al  fer  a  copper-head  to  sting  as  'tis  fer  a  'pos- 
sum to  love  p'simmons." 

The  Indian-hunter  paused  as  he  fumbled  in  the 
pocket  of  his  leather  breeches,  and  when  his  hand 
came  forth  he  slipped  a  quid  of  tobacco  in  his 
mouth,  then  continued: 

"But  t'ain't  no  use,  not  a  bit,  fooling  yerselves  by 
believin'  yer  can  beat  Injuns  fightin'  in  battle.  Jim 
Bowie  and  his  brother  Rezin  almost  did  it  once ;  and 
what  did  the  Comanches  do  but  set  fire  to  the  tall 
grass,  an'  'twas  more'n  yer  life  was  worth  to  open 
yer  powder-horn  on  that  pr-yrie.  If  yer  meet  on 
the  plain,  'tis  the  same  way,  fer  they  can  burrow  in 
the  sand  like  red  ants  and  swarm  out  when  yer 
least  'xpict  an'  sting  yer  to  death.  No,  war  is  the'r 
own  game  an'  they  whip  every  time.  Ridin'  an' 
shootin'  is  the'r  life,  the'r  delight;  besides,  they  can 
thrive  on  privations  whar  would  kill  one  of  yer,  fer 
if  at  mealtime  a  buffalo  ain't  handy,  why  a  lizard, 
a  scaripin  is  food  'nough  fer  'em ;  so  hearken  to  my 
words,  try  to  git  'em  to  make  a  treaty  with  yer — 
that  will  be  the  best  plan." 

Heeding  his  advice,  the  Texans  invited  the  Com- 
anches to  come  to  San  Antonio,  in  order  that  some 
terms  might  be  agreed  upon  for  the  protection  of 
colonists — for  the  grasp  of  the  American  nation  ful- 
filling its  mighty  destiny  was  encroaching  upon  the 
land,  converting  waste  places  into  farms  and  or- 
chards. Along  the  old  San  'Tone  Road  creaked 
the  camp- wagon  of  the  settler,  and  on  the  street  of 
every  hamlet  was  the  barrel  of  grease,  mixed  with 
tar,  to  help  turn  the  wheels  in  the  progress  of  civili- 


302  The  Grito 

zation.  The  days  of  romance  were  gliding  away; 
conditions  were  changing,  slowly  but  surely,  like  the 
glacier  moves  inch  by  inch ;  and  the  furrows  cut  by 
the  settlers'  wagon  wheels  would  widen  into  a  chan- 
nel deep  enough  for  American  prosperity  to  enter. 
It  only  needed  time — time;  a  few  more  years  and 
the  track  of  the  buffalo  and  the  pioneers'  trail  would 
be  shod  with  steel,  and  instead  of  the  land  echoing 
the  thrum  of  the  guitar,  the  plains  would  reverberate 
the  shriek  of  the  locomotive. 

In  response  to  the  white  men's  summons,  a  party 
of  sixty  odd  Comanches,  including  braves,  squaws 
and  children,  entered  the  old  Spanish  city,  San  An- 
tonio de  Bexar. 

Ten  of  the  chiefs  went  within  the  Council  House 
to  consider  a  treaty.  Big  Terrapin  was  their  leader. 
As  usual,  he  wore  his  hunting-shirt,  the  fringe  of 
which  was  dyed  vermilion,  while  the  porcupine  quills 
on  his  breeches  were  of  the  same  color.  He  did  not 
have  on  his  war-bonnet.  One  eagle  feather  only  was 
bound  close  to  his  forehead. 

It  was  hard  for  the  Texans  and  the  Indians  to 
come  to  terms,  to  any  agreement  that  was  satisfac- 
tory to  both  parties.  The  Rangers  insisted  that  the 
savages  should  give  up  all  white  captives  held  within 
their  tribes.  The  Comanches  denied  that  there  were 
such  among  them,  and  the  Americans'  tenacity  as 
to  this  point  was  met  by  obdurate,  stubborn  contra- 
diction. The  Rangers  then  informed  the  chiefs  that 
they  would  be  retained  as  hostages  until  their  white 
prisoners  were  produced. 


The  Mystery  Explained  303 

Not  until  now  had  Big  Terrapin  spoken.  His 
look  commanded  attention  and  every  ear  listened; 
though  he  used  a  patois  part  Spanish,  part  Indian, 
that  was  a  thrilling  roll  of  sound,  each  cadence 
brimmed  with  significance. 

"My  brothers,"  he  said,  resting  his  eyes  on  the 
chiefs,  "there  are  wrongs  to  be  wiped  out  on  both 
sides.  The  Comanche  may  be  mean — but  the  white 
man,  is  he  better?  The  Pale  Face  steals  as  well  as 
the  Indian.  We  take  your  people  because  you  have 
taken  our  land. 

"Many  moons  have  passed  since  my  father  was 
a  great  chief;  but  in  his  day,  the  day  of  Gray  Wolf, 
the  Nacogdoches  were  carrying  sand  and  water  to 
build  the  prayer-house  for  the  Spanish  Fathers ;  the 
Tehas  were  planting  corn  along  the  Trinity;  the 
Wacoes  were  singing  their  songs  to  the  music  of  the 
Brazos ;  but  only  the  war-path  delighted  the  Coman- 
ches.  All  the  land  westward  to  where  the  sun  dips 
into  the  desert  was  their  hunting-ground.  The 
Great  Spirit,  our  Father,  had  given  it  to  us,  and  we 
loved  it  like  the  lap  of  a  mother. 

"The  white  man  is  stealing  it  from  us. 

"If  we  allow  him  to  come,  soon  the  Comanche  will 
have  to  burrow  for  a  home  like  the  prairie-dog,  for 
there  will  be  no  space  for  his  wigwam.  His  limbs 
will  then  wax  stiff  from  lack  of  use  and  our  chiefs 
will  be  like  squaws. 

"Better  let  the  war-fever  spread ;  better  to  die  tom- 
ahawk in  hand  than  to  be  conquered  and  pent  up 
like  tame  cattle,  when  ours  is  the  spirit  of  the  bison !" 

Big  Terrapin  paused;  the  silence  was  intense; 
his  feelings  lighted  his  grim  countenance  like  a  con- 


304  The  Grito 

suming  fire.  His  blood  was  up — he  slapped  his  hand 
to  his  thigh,  then  leaped  wildly  in  the  air,  brandish- 
ing the  Toledo  blade  the  Priest  had  given  him,  as 
he  started  the  blood-curdling  war-whoop. 

The  chiefs  immediately  began  to  fight  their  way 
out,  for  Big  Terrapin's  speech  had  effected  them  as 
maguey-juice,  the  stimulant  with  which  they  craze 
themselves  for  the  war-path. 

A  massacre  ensued. 

Many  of  the  citizens  of  San  Antonio,  among 
whom  was  the  Virginian,  had  gathered  on  the  plaza, 
and  were  amusing  themselves  by  watching  the  In- 
dian children  shooting  with  bow  and  arrow  at  money 
set  up  for  targets.  Their  enjoyment  was  suddenly 
broken  upon  by  the  terrible  noise  within  the  Council 
House. 

Charles  Dabney,  knowing  Big  Terrapin  was 
among  those  who  struggled — with  the  memory  of 
past  kindnesses  and  his  English  love  of  fair  play — 
dashed  up  to  the  window,  calling  the  Indian  to  jump 
out  and  escape  on  his  horse. 

"No,  me  big  Chief !  Big  Brave !"  yelled  the  Com- 
anche.  "Me  die  with  my  people !" 

Lifeless  on  the  floor  were  stretched  the  bodies  of 
his  comrades.  The  squaws  on  the  plaza  were  fight- 
ing furiously,  desperately.  The  Texans  surrounded 
Big  Terrapin  like  hounds  baying  a  stag.  His 
strength  was  marvelous,  his  courage  pathetic,  as 
stoically  he  met  his  fate — but  with  such  daring  valor 
that  few  dared  go  near  him,  for  the  rapier  twisted 
and  turned  in  his  hand  like  a  living  thing.  Des- 
perately angered,  the  paroxysm  of  rage  upon  him 
cried  for  blood  and  vengeance,  reckless  of  his  safety. 


The  Mystery  Explained  305 

While  foes  in  front  held  his  attention,  Big  Foot 
Wallace  sprang  upon  his  back  with  the  leap  of  a 
panther.  With  iron  grasp  he  clutched  the  Coman- 
che's  throat,  his  fingers  closing  like  a  vise.  The  In- 
dian tried  to  shake  him  off,  but  to  no  avail — his 
snakey  eyes  widened,  his  bronze  skin  began  to  as- 
sume a  saffron  tint,  as  black  spots,  veiled  in  mist  and 
strangely  blurred,  passed  in  a  blinding  veil  before 
his  vision.  Then  as  he  sunk  down  with  a  hoarse 
gurgle,  a  Ranger  put  his  pistol  to  his  forehead  and 
fired,  but  stepped  back  quickly  as  a  curious  jingling 
sound,  as  of  tiny  chains  falling  together,  met  his  ear. 
It  was  the  mystery  of  the  Chiefs  charmed  life,  for 
beneath  his  buckskin  shirt  was  a  linked  coat-of-mail, 
that  had  cheated  alike  bullet  and  spear. 

How  Big  Terrapin  came  by  it,  there  was  none  to 
tell.  Perhaps  some  adventurous  spirit  had  used  it 
as  a  safeguard  when  following  Cortez  and  the  ban- 
ner of  old  Spain.  Perhaps  it  had  descended  from 
some  Crusader  who  had  worn  it  battling  for  the  Holy 
Sepulchre;  or  maybe  it  was  used  by  some  knight 
of  Granada  in  trying  to  keep  the  alien  Moor  out 
of  his  country,  just  as  the  Comanche  resented  the 
incursion  of  the  paleface.  Perhaps — who  knows  ? — 
for  the  desert  gives  up  its  secrets  grudgingly. 

It  was  hard  to  think,  as  Big  Terrapin  lay  there 
with  his  blood  seeping  down  on  the  floor,  that  he 
was  dead — that  he  would  never  stir  again — never- 
more go  on  the  war-path,  or  ride  a  familiar  figure 
through  the  streets  of  old  San  'Tone. 

Dabney  came  in  quietly  and  knelt  beside  his  body, 
for  this  Indian  had  been  his  friend — Josefa's  friend. 
With  the  fringe  of  the  Chiefs  shirt  he  wiped  the 


306  The  Grito 

warm  blood  from  the  coppery  face  and  turned  him 
over  and  straightened  out  the  massive  limbs,  fast 
growing  rigid.  As  he  did  so  his  eye  spied  on  the 
Comanche's  hand  the  Daubigney  signet-ring,  with 
its  armorial  bearings;  and  quickly  over  the  Virgin- 
ian swept  the  tide  of  old  associations — like  a  little 
thing,  the  jostling  of  a  pebble  may  start  an  ava- 
lanche. Slipping  the  ring  from  the  dead  man's 
finger  Dabney  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  arose  to  go. 
Unknown  to  him,  the  Priest  had  also  entered  the 
Council  House  and  picked  up  the  rapier  from  the 
floor — the  rapier  of  Toledan  finish  that  the  Chief 
had  prized  so  dear. 

As  the  Virginian  passed  out,  Father  Clement 
handed  it  to  him,  saying : 

"My  son,  I  wish  you  to  have  this — 'twas  my 
sword,  and  so  far  as  I  know  its  history,  has  not  a 
stain  on  it.  Take  it — keep  it — and  use  it  only  in  the 
cause  of  honor  and  right."  The  old  Frenchman's 
voice  sunk  low  as  he  added,  "And  in  protecting  my 
child — that  is  to  be  your  wife." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  BLADE  THAT  WON. 

The  next  morning,  as  Dabney  was  crossing  the 
plaza  near  the  Cathedral  of  San  Fernando,  he  spied 
Wallace  coming  down  the  street. 

"Wait  there,"  cried  Big  Foot,  "for  I've  got  a  lot 
to  tell  you  that  happened  to  us  Mier  prisoners  after 
you  and  Pat  Jack  got  away." 

The  Virginian  paused  for  his  compatriot  to  join 
him,  and  the  big,  black-haired  Ranger,  soon  by  his 
side,  said: 

"Come,  let's  go  in  that  tavern  yonder  and  talk 
things  over.  It  rests  with  us,"  he  added  laughingly, 
"who  come  from  the  older  States  to  help  civilize 
this  new  country;  to  teach  'em  our  good  old  cus- 
toms like  peach  and  honey  and  mint  julep  and  cock- 
tail, instead  of  pulque,  mescal  and  aguardiente,  all 
meaner  than  raw  cider.  It  will  take  time,  though, 
my  friend,  and  in  the  interim  how  will  whiskey 
straight  suit  you?" 

Dabney  nodded  his  head,  so  whiskey  was  brought. 

Big  Foot,  lifting  his  glass,  said: 

"Ole  Virginny!" 

Hardly  had  Dabney' s  clinked,  before  Wallace, 
having  gulped  his  down,  ordered  another.  Again 


308  The  Grito 

their  glasses  touched,  and  the  toast,  heartily  drunk, 
was: 

"Sam  Houston,  the  hero  of  San  Jacinto !  The  lib- 
erator of  Texas!" 

"More!"  shouted  the  convivial  ex-captive,  and 
raising  his  bumper,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
he  cried :  "May  the  senorita  Josefa  soon  be  the  sen- 
ora  Daubigney!" 

Then  arm-in-arm  they  left  the  room  and  seated 
themselves  on  the  tavern's  step,  for  the  spot  was 
shady,  despite  the  sunlight  flooding  the  old  city  of 
Bexar. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  Wallace  began,  as  a  kind 
of  preface  to  his  Mier  reminiscences,  "the  Mexicans 
put  us  to  work  carrying  sand  to  make  a  road  to 
Santa  Anna's  palace.  It  was  hard  to  tote  dirt  for 
such  a  snake,  and  being  chained  together  two  and 
two  didn't  make  it  no  easier.  Now,  you  know,  Dab- 
ney,  there's  a  word  about  bearing  one  another's  bur- 
dens. I  disremember  where  it  comes  from,  but  I 
reckon  like  the  old  parson  used  to  say  when  he 
couldn't  classify  a  passage,  'If  'tain't  in  the  Good 
Book,  you  mighty  likely  to  find  it  is  in  the  cate- 
chism/ And  so  we  tried  it,  this  lightening  of  others' 
burdens;  but  you  know  Scripture  can't  always  be 
applied  literal,  so  we  that  had  strong  teeth  bit  holes 
in  our  comrades'  sacks  and  the  burdens  then  light- 
ened themselves,  for  the  way  the  sand  run  out  was 
a  caution!  Later  they  sent  us  to  Perote,  where  the 
dungeon  air  was  so  foul  lots  of  the  poor  boys 
couldn't  stand  it,  and  passed  in  their  checks." 

"I  reckon  you  all  thought  your  time  had  come," 
remarked  Dabney. 


The  Blade  that  Won  309 

"Dying  be  damned!"  vociferated  Wallace.  "It 
would  take  more  than  a  stench  to  make  us  give  up 
hope.  We  were  planning  to  get  out,  some  way  or 
other,  though  the  prison  windows,  not  much  larger 
than  a  pigeon  hole,  showed  us  'twan't  goin'  be  no 
easy  job,  for  thicker  walls  I  never  saw.  Then,  as 
luck  would  have  it,  the  Mexicans  put  us  to  work 
again — not  to  doing  man's  work,  Lord  love  you,  but 
the  work  of  beast ! 

"Yes,  sir,  we  were  hitched  to  carts  and  made  to 
haul  dirt.  They  treated  us  exactly  like  horses,  so 
we  determined  to  use  our  horse-sense.  We  would 
run  away — play  we  were  skeart,  shy  in  the  road  and 
make  them  old  carts  go  lumbering  along  at  such  a 
gait,  we  knocked  off  the  corners  of  lots  of  'dobes. 
'Twas  fun  for  us  to  hear  the  owners  come  out  and 
cuss;  for  the  Mexicans  can  swear,  sir;  wuss  than 
sailors  or  even  Texans !" 

Wallace,  supplying  himself  with  a  fresh  quid  of 
tobacco,  continued: 

"Bym'by,  as  there  was  no  chance  to  escape  in  the 
day,  we  thought  we  would  burrow  out  at  night. 
The  alkali  dust  would  get  in  our  throats,  but  we'd 
cough  and  scratch  on;  and  'fore  long  the  hole  got 
big  'nough  for  some  to  squeeze  through  and  get 
away.  But  when  one  fat  fellow  got  stuck  and  had 
a  devil  of  a  time  sliding  back,  I  said  to  myself,  'Big 
Foot,  be  patient,  old  man,  fer  you  ain't  built  to  go 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle.'  That's  another  ex- 
pression from  the  catechism  that  stuck  in  my  head 
like  a  cuckle-bur.  Well,  I  said,  says  I,  'Bide  your 
time,  don't  risk  it;  wait  a  while,  old  chap.'  Soon 
the  tunnel  was  discovered,  and  what  might  have 


310  The  Grito 

happened  to  us  ain't  pleasant  food  for  thought;  but 
just  afterwards  came  the  order  to  have  us  liber- 
ated." 

"Which  reminds  me,"  said  Dabney,  "that  today 
is  the  time  appointed  to  liberate  the  Mexican  officers 
that  have  been  detained  here.  My  duties  as  provost- 
marshal  will  necessitate  my  seeing  Castrillo  again, 
though  I  wish  it  were  not  so." 

"A  meaner  devil,"  said  Wallace,  "never  drew  the 
breath  of  life.  I  can  see  him  now  chuckling  over 
the  boys  drawing  black  beans.  It  makes  my  blood 
boil  to  think  about  it,  and  'tis  well  for  him  that  I 
don't  give  him  his  parole,  or  'twould  be  a  death  sen- 
tence instead. 

When,  later  in  the  day,  Dabney  entered  Castrillo' s 
presence,  the  Mexican  gave  him  a  quaint  Spanish 
salute,  and  grimaced  horribly  as  he  broke  into  a 
laugh  satanic  in  its  mirth. 

"My  congratulations,"  he  said  mockingly;  "my 
congratulations  to  Carlos  Daubigney;  for  my  leav- 
ing Texas  means  to  him  joy,  bliss,  the  undisputed 
possession  of  a  pressed  flower — a  bauble  that  in 
times  past  furnished  me  amusement  and  will  now 
doubtless  give  him  the  same." 

The  Virginian  stood  listening,  his  brow  dark  with 
menace,  his  face  livid  with  rage.  Hardly  had  this 
insult  passed  the  Spaniard's  lips  before  Dabney 
struck  him  full  in  the  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand. 

There  were  few  men  more  vile  and  craven  than 
Castrillo;  and  out  of  a  heart  black  as  hell  his  jeal- 
ousy had  prompted  the  exultant  villainy  of  this 
speech.  Grinding  his  teeth,  he  hissed: 


The  Blade  that  Won  -      311 

"You  take  advantage,  sir,  of  my  position  as  a 
prisoner-of-war;  for  were  I  free,  my  knife  would 
laugh  in  the  heart  of  one  who  dared  so  insult  me." 
His  nostrils  distended,  and  again  that  harsh,  strident 
laugh  of  derision  sounded  on  the  air. 

"There  you  are  mistaken,"  Dabney  hotly  replied 
his  face  now  deadly  pale.  "I  would  never  screen 
myself  behind  my  government  in  wreaking  a  per- 
sonal vengeance.  I  am  not  in  Salado  but  you  are 
in  San  'Tone,  and  the  reverse  of  positions  will  not 
make  me  forget  what  befits  my  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man. Today  we  meet  as  equals;  for  you  are  free, 
Castrillo,  and  there  is  no  need  for  this  affair  to  be 
arranged  in  the  regular  manner.  It  is  your  privi- 
lege, senor,  to  name  the  weapons." 

"Swords !"  came  the  curt  reply. 

"Agreed,"  said  the  Virginian,  who  quickly  dis- 
posed of  the  arrangements  necessary  for  the  libera- 
tion of  the  other  prisoners,  then  returned  to  Cas- 
trillo, telling  him  he  was  ready ;  and  together  the 
rivals  went  forth  to  their  fate. 

A  wood  of  pecans  not  twenty  yards  away  was 
selected  as  the  spot  for  the  duel.  Soon  through  the 
autumn's  foliage,  like  the  stained-glass  windows  of 
some  vast  cathedral,  streamed  the  sunlight  on  the 
flash  of  steel. 

The  men  played  their  swords  well. 

Dabney,  tall  and  fair,  looked  paler  than  usual; 
while  Castrillo's  dark,  blood-shot  eyes  gleamed  with 
murderous  hate,  for  a  devil's  mood  was  on  him,  and 
he  fenced  with  a  wrist  of  iron.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  he  had  locked  horns  with  a  stag,  though  the 
Virginian's  unerring  precision  was  a  surprise  to  him. 


312  The  Grito 

Their  blades  clashed,  then  glided  along  one  another 
to  the  hilt,  the  swords  twisting  and  hissing  as  sparks 
shot  forth. 

Suddenly  the  Spaniard,  panting  with  rage,  drew 
back  and  lunged  with  a  straight  thrust  at  Dabney's 
heart;  but  without  spitting  him,  for  the  blow  was 
parried  and  the  fight  went  grimly  on. 

The  long  blades  described  circles  and  looked  like 
hairs  of  silver.  Castrillo  was  more  practiced  in  the 
art  of  fencing,  and  seemed  likely  to  wear  his  oppon- 
ent out,  though  Dabney's  countenance  showed  no 
sign  of  submission,  no  trace  of  fear.  The  Virginian 
made  up  in  determination  what  he  lacked  in  cun- 
ning, though  he  was  growing  desperate,  for  the 
artifice  by  which  his  adversary  caused  his  rapier  to 
seem  a  foil  made  a  mockery  of  his  efforts.  His 
blood  boiled  and  he  fought  as  a  game-cock  fights 
with  gaffs. 

The  Spaniard  uttered  an  ugly  oath  as  he  set  his 
jaws ;  and  maddened,  both  gathered  their  forces  and 
fenced  as  men  do  only  when  the  life  of  the  other 
means  satisfaction. 

Castrillo,  lithe,  vicious,  dogged,  aimed  another 
thrust  that  might  have  been  effectual  had  not  his 
foot  been  caught  in  a  vine,  causing  him  to  stumble 
slightly,  so  that  the  point  of  Dabney's  blade  scratched 
his  arm  with  a  nasty  slash. 

Smarting  with  pain,  he  sprang  at  the  Virginian 
with  a  frantic  lunge. 

He  was  left-handed,  and  though  Dabney  was  alert 
and  wary,  it  kept  his  eyes  busy  following  the  swords. 

The  men's  bodies  came  close  together,  and  Cas- 
trillo, determined  to  kill  his  rival  by  fair  means  or 


The  Blade  that  Won  313 

foul,  bending  suddenly,  unexpectedly  forward,  tried 
to  stab  the  Virginian  with  a  knife  held  in  his  right 
hand.  It  was  the  work  of  a  second,  and  Dabney 
had  wrenched  it  from  him  and  dashed  it  far  away, 
muttering  between  clenched  teeth : 

"You  dastard!    You  devil!" 

The  Spaniard,  realizing  he  had  played  his  last 
card,  cheat  though  it  was,  swore  unsparingly,  as 
rallying  his  spent  strength  he  made  a  last  desperate 
effort. 

The  Virginian's  blade  twisted  as  only  Toledan 
mettle  can,  and  sent  the  other's  sword  hurtling  from 
his  hand  as  it  ran  him  through.  The  blade  blessed 
by  the  Priest  had  won! 

Castrillo's  body  sank  limp  to  the  ground.  The 
pupils  of  the  blood-shot  eyes  rolled  under  their  heavy 
lids,  while  his  tongue  lolled  from  his  mouth,  whence 
oozed  a  bloody  spume.  He  lay  like  a  crushed  worm 
— a  viper — a  sight  not  pleasant  to  look  upon,  and 
Dabney  quickly  turned  away.  Stooping  down  he 
wiped  his  sword  on  the  grass,  saying: 

"The  Priest  gave  it  to  me  to  shield  Josefa;  and 
now  that  earth  is  well  rid  of  him,  I  trust  my  dar- 
ling's life  may  henceforth  be  filled  with  happiness 
and  peace,  as  it  shall  be — God  willing!" 

And  so  it  was  as  the  purple  twilight  settled  over 
the  old  town  of  Bexar,  Dabney  rapidly  wended  his 
way  to  the  adobe  on  the  Plaza  de  las  Islas. 

The  little  daguerreotype  still  remained  a  mys- 
tery— a  mystery  which  Josefa  had  solved  with  a  wo- 
man's intuition.  It  was  the  picture,  she  believed, 
of  a  dead  sweetheart ;  and  yet  the  fear  that  she  might 
perhaps  be  still  alive  kept  the  senorita  from  asking 


314  The  Grito 

questions.  She  longed  for  the  truth  of  her  supposi- 
tion, but  feared  lest  greater  knowledge  might  bring 
greater  grief.  The  dimple  near  Josef  a' s  mouth  had 
begun  to  fade  into  a  plaintive  little  line,  for  that 
keen  blast  that  ever  withers  a  woman's  heart  blew 
upon  her  in  the  knowledge  that  her  lover  did  not 
give  her  his  confidence — for  love  without  confidence 
is  like  a  nut  without  a  kernel. 

Dabney,  too,  felt  the  change  in  their  relationship, 
and  ascribed  it,  as  he  did  every  sorrow  that  beset 
him  resolute  to  tell  her  all.  No  spectre  of  doubt 
the  unalterable  past  that  was  widening  the  distance 
between  them.  And  yet  how  could  it  better  mat- 
ters to  discuss  them?  It  might  be  like  lifting  the 
lid  of  Pandora's  box,  whence  the  secret  of  his  life 
escaping,  might  carry  naught  save  misery  to  Jose  fa's 
heart.  But  now  the  great  love  that  he  bore  her  made 
him,  to  part  of  his  punishment ;  yes,  it  was  his  past, 
should  stalk  between  them ;  nothing  should  separate 
him  from  her  whom  he  loved  for  all  her  womanli- 
ness of  character,  all  the  purity  of  her  clean  white 
soul. 

"Josefa,"  he  said,  holding  her  little  hand  close  in 
his,  "I  wish  to  slip  on  your  finger  a  ring  that  will 
signify  our  betrothal.  It  is  a  curious  old  ring — see, 
by  touching  that  spring  in  the  bezel  it  widens  or  les- 
sens to  fit  the  finger  that  wears  it.  You  have  seen 
it  before, — Big  Terrapin  won  it  for  saving  my  life, 
— and  now,  darling,  you  have  won  it  for  making 
my  life  worth  saving;  for,  little  girl,  that  is  the 
debt  I  owe  you,  a  debt  I  never  can  repay  unless  you 
will  let  me  be  your  slave,  your  peon  for  life. 


The  Blade  that  Won  315 

"This  ring,  as  you  see,"  he  continued,  "is  en- 
graved with  a  motto — the  Daubigney  motto — which 
reads,  'He  conquers  who  overcomes  himself/  Now, 
I  could  never  have  conquered  myself  but  for  the  love 
I  bore  you;  that  has  been  my  salvation.  Through 
this  little  hoop  of  gold  I  see  my  past — not  a  very 
creditable  one,  but  not  wicked  as  men  count  wick- 
edness, save  for  one  rash  act.  Listen,  darling,  it 
is  this  that  I  dread  to  tell  you — for  will  you  love  me 
as  much  when  you  know  that  I  fled  to  Texas  because 
accidentally  I  had  killed  my  brother?  Heaven 
knows  I  did  not  mean  to  do  it,  and  bitterly  I  have 
been  punished,  and  God  is  my  witness  that  I  have 
been  truly  penitent.  My  brother  bribed  the  servants 
to  tell  my  father  lies,  and  when  at  my  parent's 
death-bed  I  learned  by  his  intrigue  that  my  name 
had  been  left  out  of  the  will,  I  struck  him  a  blow 
with  the  butt  of  my  riding-whip;  that  ended  his 
life  and  ruined  mine.  Then  the  idea  seized  me  to 
put  as  great  a  distance  as  possible  between  me  and 
my  crime,  so  that  explains  my  coming  to  the  fron- 
tier. Your  influence  and  Father  Clement's  have 
helped  me  to  outlive  evil  rather  than  be  overcome 
by  it.  Many  has  been  the  night  when  I  would  clasp 
this  circlet  of  gold  and  pray  to  be  a  better  man ;  for 
this  ring  girdled  all  the  memories  of  my  boyhood, 
and  was  the  sole  reminder  of  my  duty  as  a  D'Au- 
bigney  to  retrieve  my  past." 

The  Virginian  had  spoken  rapidly,  with  his  eyes 
set  before  him;  now  he  paused  to  steal  a  glance  at 
Josefa.  The  senorita's  face  reflected  the  feelings 
and  emotions  caused  by  his  story.  A  mist  of  tears 
dimmed  the  brightness  of  the  look  that  she  bent 


316  The  Grito 

upon  her  hand  as  she  held  it  out  and  scrutinized  the 
ring 

"I  could  never  have  conquered  myself,"  Dabney 
reiterated,  "unless  you  had  conquered  my  heart ;  and 
so  this  ring  is  a  talisman,  a  pledge  of  our  love." 

Still  the  girl  did  not  speak;  and  Dabney  did  not 
know  how  to  interpret  her  silence. 

"I  do  not  wish,"  he  began,  then  hesitated, — the 
words  were  so  hard  to  say, — "I  do  not  wish,"  he 
faltered  again,  "God  knows,  to  bring  the  bitterness 
of  this  sorrow  into  your  life;  and  if  now,  much  as 
it  would  cost  me,  you  prefer  to  link  your  fate  with 
another — it  is  not — too  late." 

But  Josefa  was  not  thinking  of  what  he  was  say- 
ing— she  was  thinking  of  the  daguerreotype. 

"No,  Carlos,"  she  said;  "but  I — feel  as  if  I  must 
be  all — everything  to  my  husband — that  there  must 
be  no  other  woman  in  his  heart — unless  it  is  the 
Blessed  Virgin."  Then  she  could  not  explain  her- 
self further,  for  though  she  struggled  piteously,  no 
sound  came  forth,  and  in  her  despair  her  hands  went 
to  her  eyes  as  if  to  blot  out  a  vision,  for  before  her 
mind  rose  the  lovely  girlish  face  in  the  little  leathern 
case. 

Dabney  glanced  at  her  shrinking  air,  her  nervous 
hands  pressed  against  her  forehead — and  he  could 
not  understand. 

"Little  girl,"  he  said,  "I  have  given  you  all  the 
love  and  devotion  of  my  soul.  You  are  my  only 
love — the  lone  star  in  my  heart.  The  rapture  of 
your  kisses,  the  touch  of  your  arms  could  draw  me 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  find  you.  I  have  looked 
forward  to  the  time  so  eagerly  when  the  war  should 


The  Blade  that  Won  317 

be  over  and  I  could  gather  you  to  my  heart,  my  very 
own;  for  anticipation,  darling,  is  not  enough  for  a 
man  like  me — I  crave  the  fruition  of  my  dreams, 
my  hopes." 

Josef  a  clasped  her  soft  arms  about  his  neck  and 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  unutterable  affection. 

"My  love,"  he  whispered,  gathering  her  yielding 
body  closer,  "our  hearts,  our  lives  are  blended  now 
and  forever!" 

"Yes,  forever!"  she  repeated  between  his  kisses. 
And  then  fully  satisfied,  fully  assured  that  rival  she 
had  none,  Josefa  slipped  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and 
handed  Dabney  the  little  leathern  case,  saying: 

"Now,  Carlos,  you  can  have  this." 

A  puzzled  expression  flashed  across  his  face  and 
his  tone  changed  as  he  asked : 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  get  it?" 

Jose  fa's  large  black  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with 
startling  inquiry,  for  she  could  see  the  sight  of  the 
picture  stirred  him  strangely,  and  with  quivering 
lips  she  asked  him  whose  the  likeness  was. 

"My  sister  Angelica,"  he  replied,  "whom  I  loved 
devotedly.  It  was  she  who  at  our  hasty  parting 
pressed  my  father's  ring  upon  my  finger  and  bade 
me  be  worthy  of  my  lineage  and  the  motto." 

The  Virginian  sighed,  and  the  sefiorita's  velvety 
arms  again  stole  round  his  neck  in  a  loving  embrace 
— for  there  was  no  longer  any  mystery,  any  secret, 
any  past  to  divide  them.  The  present,  the  moment, 
was  all  in  all  to  him  and  to  her.  A  happiness  in- 
tense, filled  with  the  great  wonder  of  love,  leaped 
from  their  souls  as  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes 
and  read  therein  lasting  joy — heart  affinity — bliss 


318  The  Grito 

divine;  for  earth  had  become  an  Eden  of  their  very 
own. 

The  shades  of  evening  had  gathered;  the  moon, 
stealing  into  the  sky,  shone  with  that  mellow  light 
that  softens  nature  and  makes  the  world  forget  its 
cares. 

Father  Clement  had  joined  the  young  people ;  and 
as  they  talked  of  their  great  happiness,  the  Priest 
said  : 

"It  is  the  way  to  cement  the  country,  for  a  union 
of  hearts  is  stronger  than  any  other  agreement.  The 
Mexicans  and  the  Americans  have  fought  for  the 
mastery  of  Texas;  the  remnant  of  the  vanquished 
race  lingering  yet  in  the  land  would  never  have  as- 
similated, but  in  time  they  will  amalgamate.  The 
English  are  cold,  unfeeling,  they  lack  sentiment ;  the 
Spanish  will  supply  it  and  life  will  be  sweeter  for 
it — for  they  can  love."  And  the  Frenchman  sighed. 

"They  may  love  more  passionately,"  agreed  Dab- 
ney,  "but  I  believe  no  race  loves  more  tenderly  or 
tenaciously  than  we  Americans;  for  our  love  is  a 
compound — having  the  endurance  of  the  Norseman, 
the  music  of  the  Saxon,  and  the  ardor  of  the  Nor- 
man." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Jesuit,  "the  ardor  of  the 
Norman,  that  is  good;  that  is  the  little  leaven,  mon 
ami,  that  redeems  the  solid,  practical  side  of  your 
people.  But,"  he  added,  "the  time  draws  near  when 
I  must  need  leave  Josefa,  and  it  will  be  a  comfort  to 
leave  her  in  a  husband's  tender  care.  Besides,"  he 
continued,  with  the  light  of  his  old  enjoyment  of 
jest  bright  in  his  eye,  "my  pains  in  trying  to  teach 
my  godchild  have  not  been  in  vain.  I  feel  satisfied 


The  Blade  that  Won  319 

that  she  is  now  a  noble  character,  for  she  daily  prac- 
tices, and  without  a  struggle,  that  mandate  most  dif- 
ficult to  obey,  To  love  one's  enemy — for  you,  mon 
cher  Daubigney,  are  an  Americano,  an  enemy  of  the 
Mexican,  while  she  has  the  most  loyal  blood  of  old 
Spain  in  her  veins  and  was  born  a  subject  of  Mex- 
ico." The  Priest  could  not  speak  further  for  laugh- 
ing, and  Dabney  and  Josefa  joined  with  him.  Then 
they  lapsed  into  silence — that  perfect  silence  of  con- 
tentment. Not  a  leaf  stirred — the  air  was  still,  for 
the  hush  of  the  night  pervaded  the  atmosphere  until 
the  hooting  of  an  owl  fell  upon  the  harmony  of 
quietude  like  a  harsh,  discordant  note.  Hearing 
which,  Josefa  shuddered  as  she  said  half  audibly : 

"Quando  el  tecolete  canta  il  indio  muere" 

"What  is  that  thou  art  saying,  my  chiquita?" 
asked  Father  Clement ;  adding,  "I  am  growing  very 
deaf." 

"Nothing,"  faltered  Josefa,  "except  Chona  used 
to  believe  when  an  owl  cried  it  meant  the  passing 
of  a  soul  or  that  a  death  was  near." 

The  senorita's  voice  had  involuntarily  sunk  to  a 
whisper. 

"Poor  Chona,"  said  the  Priest,  "was  a  good  but 
a  very  simple-minded  old  woman ;  while  the  owl  is 
deemed  a  wise  bird, — hence  I  do  not  know  whether 
she  could  interpret  aright  his  cry,  but  she  might, — 
so  I  shall  not  gainsay  it."  And  leaning  over  he 
patted  Josefa's  head  caressingly  and  imprinted  a 
kiss  on  her  brow ;  then  he  arose  to  go  in  the  house. 

Very  slowly  did  Father  Clement  move.  His  step 
was  more  halting,  his  feet  dragged  heavier  than 
usual.  As  he  reached  the  doorway  his  body  stum- 


320  The  Grito 

bled  and  fell.  Gently  Dabney  lifted  him  so  that  his 
head  rested  in  Josefa's  lap.  The  Priest  seemed  strug- 
gling to  speak,  but  the  last  sands  of  life  were  rap- 
idly running  through  the  glass.  His  words  came 
slowly,  and  his  voice  was  so  low  only  the  Virginian, 
who  was  chafing  his  heart,  heard  him  as  he  whis- 
pered : 

"Into  Thy  hands  I  commit  my  spirit;  Thou  hast 
redeemed  me,  O  Lord  God  of  truth !" 

And  time  had  ceased  to  be  with  Father  Clement, 
for  he  had  crossed  the  threshold  leading  to  the  con- 
fines of  the  beautiful  and  the  blessed. 

Dabney  put  his  arms  around  Josefa  and  drew 
her,  crushed  and  weeping,  to  his  breast. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered,  his  voice  shaking  with 
sympathy  and  tender  with  love,  "you  have  lost  a 
parent;  and  I — the  noblest  friend  earth  ever  gave. 
In  the  future  we  must  be  to  each  other  what  he  was 
to  us  both ;  you  must  lean  on  me  now,  entirely  and 
completely;  and  with  God's  help  and  guidance  I 
shall  try  to  comfort  and  keep  you  till  death  us  do 
part."  ' 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


W2376 

JAN     &REfr& 
JAN  31*77 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


"JED  AT  NRSI 


PS3523.Y45G7 


3  2106  00212  5224 


